Far From Over
by MapleleafCameo
Summary: A mysterious woman with a hidden past and present is interested in John Watson. Who is she and what does she want? Rated M for content in later chapters. Eventual Sherlock return. - Reviews contain Spoilers
1. Chapter 1

Far From Over

**This story takes place a few months prior to TRF for the first chapter and then starting several weeks after. The main character in the story is a minor character normally and I've made her Canadian. I decided to start writing what I know and what I know is Canadian. **

**I do not own the characters from Sherlock. BBC and ACD do. If I owned Sherlock and John we would never leave the house!**

Chapter 1 - 2 months before TRF

It was cold that day. Freezing in fact. Below freezing. The wind had been blowing off of Lake Ontario. Winter had started early and with a vengeance and had continued that way until it felt like there had only ever been winter. Some years snow and winter weather seemed to, not exactly pass Toronto by, but never hit it directly, the same way it did for most of Canada. On the radio that morning, tuned to CBC, the morning weather report had predicted -15 Celsius, with the wind chill making it feel like -25. Now compared to some parts of Canada that might seem down right balmy.

It really didn't matter what the weather was like out, really, She ran every day if she could. Even work had to wait sometimes to run. Running was more exhilarating than going through the workout regime at the gym. She ran to keep in shape, yes, but more to keep fluid, to help keep reflexes automatic. In her business slow reflexes could kill you. She slowed in some places to avoid icy patches and mounds of snow that was waiting to be cleared. She slowed again as she neared her apartment building. Slow down, lower the heart rate, control the breathing. As she approached the front of the old brownstone building she had returned to a walk. She dug her keys out of the pocket on the side of her coat. She climbed the steps, opened the outer door and unlocked the inner door. The temperature rose as she made her way down the hall. She unlocked the door to her apartment and walked in. It was a small, one bedroom apartment, almost obsessively neat. She went into the small, galley kitchen, and removed her toque as she went. She flicked on the kettle and paused.

Something was not right.

She slowed her forward motion and her eyes darted around the room. She moved out of the kitchen, cautiously to where she could see all of the living room. Nothing seemed out of place. Slowly she made her way across the living room, all of her sense heightened. That was where she noticed a faint scent. Aftershave? Yes, expensive aftershave. Interesting. There was no man in her life so someone she probable didn't know had been in her home. At almost the same time she noticed the door to her bedroom was ajar. She always kept it closed.

Now she felt annoyed. Someone had been or still was in her apartment and had been in her room. She felt a slight anger at the intrusion, but she squashed it down. Anger was a distraction. She couldn't afford to be distracted. She could be angry later after she had cleared the apartment. Maybe she could be angry when she found out who had been there. Or if they still were there. She bent down, slowly, near her sofa and pulled out from under it a staff, approximately 120 cm in length. This wasn't her weapon of choice, but it worked well for defense and she could still beat the crap out of anyone with it. The range of motion in the small space concerned her a bit, but she was confident she would be able to subdue anyone in her space. She checked the small bathroom first. There was nothing there so she moved to the bedroom door and she pushed it open with the staff.

The room appeared empty. A quick check in the small closet and then she noticed something on her bed that hadn't been there when she had left for her run. A large manila envelope. She sat on the bed and kept the staff near at hand. She pulled the envelop towards her with a puzzled frown on her face. An assignment? She had quit that life. She hadn't been given an assignment since…well. Hmmmmm.

Intrigued she opened the envelope and pulled out a file. A note on expensive heavy paper was on top. She thought she might vaguely recognize the handwriting.

_I need a favour. If you should hear that something has happened to me, I need you to take care of this man in your own, unique way. It is extremely important. I caution you to ensure that he not be made aware of your attention. He is trained in the military, a former army doctor in fact. He would not appreciate your interference. He may be more than annoyed. I cannot give you more information at this time. Use your best judgement on how to proceed. If something does happen you will be contacted with additional information. Your usual amount, plus expenses will be deposited into your account. You will be contacted if your services are not required. I must admit to you that if something does happen I will be saddened that I will not see you again. I have some regret that I have not kept in better contact with you._

_A distant friend_

She smiled slightly. Interesting that he would call her friend and would feel any emotion. She was amused by the notion.

She put those thoughts aside and opened the file. Inside there was a picture of a man, late thirties, blonde hair going slightly grey in a short military cut. His face was alight with a warm smile changing ordinary looks into extraordinary. The photo was taken far enough away that it was hard to tell eye colour. That would be included in the rest of the information. She put the photo to one side and picked up a piece of paper from underneath. This included height, weight, eye colour (brown). She took note of his military carrier and her eyebrows rose slightly when she saw that he was an excellent marksman. Discharged from the army due to a shoulder wound. He was friends and colleagues with…

Well that explained a bit. She put the information to one side, deep in thought. She owed her "distant friend" so much. It had been a long time ago but he had helped her with a difficult situation and she owed him, plain and simple.

It had been a long time since she had visited England. She was lost in her memories of the time she had handed her life to this man.

A sudden thought pulled her out of the past and she picked up the note again. She reread the second sentence.

_If you should hear that something has happened to me…_

"Damn it, " she whispered. 'What have you gotten yourself into this time."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Ok so here's Chapter 2. I ended up changing some things that you'll never see that take place in later chpts, to make the story (hopefully) tighter. I'm also really mad at myself – I try really hard to check facts & hate it when I make a mistake. I'm very nearsighted & even though we have a T.V. that's way too big I didn't notice until I was watching The Great Game on the ipad (& right up to my face! – not **_**quite**_** kissing the screen) that Martin Freeman's eyes are a lovely dark blue not brown. So for the sake of continuity, for this story, John's eyes are brown. Shutting up now! Oh yeah-there's swearing – I swear a lot, so…**

Chapter 2 – 1 month after TRF

She sat back in the taxi, relaxing into the seat. It had been a long flight from Toronto to London and even though she had spent a week changing her sleeping patterns so she wouldn't be completely jet lagged when she arrived, she was still tired. She thought about the last few weeks and came to the conclusion that a lot of her fatigue was sadness. She frowned that thought away. She didn't get sad. Not any more. She wasn't a machine, that wasn't it. She just didn't have anyone in her life that she cared about that much any more. Especially now.

She hadn't heard the news right away. Living in Toronto there were more Canadian things to hear about on the news. Things like this wouldn't make the international news segment. No, those stories would be about the economy overseas and wars and stories like that. When she got the second package of information and sat there staring at the contents of the envelope on her lap for a longer time than was really necessary, she realized she was in denial. This couldn't have happened. Not really. It couldn't be true. She went on the internet and found additional stories and headlines about what had happened. Not just the one newspaper clipping that had been sent to her along with detailed instructions of who she was meeting, how they were setting the job up and an open ticket to England.

She sighed. She would have to suppress the emotions before she started working. They would interfere and she was, if anything, professional and took pride in a job well done. Emotions clouded the issue and made you do things that might (maybe) make you regret your choices. Or change the course of your life. That's what happened five years ago and had lead her to sitting in a taxi in London on her way to a hotel to meet someone she didn't like very much and was quite frankly scared of. _Deep cleansing breath. Clamp it down. Take out the emotions, look at them later when the job was finished and she was back safely in Canada._

The taxi pulled up in front of a small, modest but clean looking hotel. She really didn't care where she stayed as long as there was a decent bed, internet connection and a hot shower. She pulled her suitcase out with her. It wasn't big. She didn't need much. She hadn't been able to bring her own equipment, because it wouldn't have cleared security in any country, not with out the proper paper work and she didn't have time for that. Her contact would provide her with everything she needed anyway.

Check-in was normal. She stopped at a vending machine on her floor (ground floor, easier to escape from if one needed to do that) and grabbed a bottle of water. Used the key card to access the room and flipped on the light switch inside the door. She quickly checked the room and cleared it. Old habits died hard and old habits would hopefully keep you alive. The room contained a small but serviceable bathroom, one double bed, television, a small desk and chair and internet connection. She grabbed a luggage stand from out of the closet and placed her suitcase on top of it. She opened it and grabbed her toiletries bag and went into the bathroom to have a quick shower to clear the last of the fatigue. She was thinking she probably wouldn't have much time to do this before she was contacted. Knowing her handler, he would have been aware the moment she left Toronto. He would show up soon to brief her. He would show as soon as possible. He would do it to try to unsettle her. He liked doing that.

The shower had helped. The water was hot and she felt a little more human afterwards. Fortunately when she came out of the bathroom she had wrapped a towel around herself because there was someone sitting on the room's only chair. Right. Bastard. He did it on purpose and she knew that he would do it and she still yelped a little. Obviously she was more tired that she thought and not in the proper mindset. Stupid. What was it she had been thinking about old habits? Yeah, well that went out the window!

"Jesus Mycroft! What the hell?"

Mycroft Holmes was sitting there, calmly, coolly, his legs crossed, ever present umbrella tapping slightly against his upraised foot. He bestowed her with one of his patented wintery smiles and nodded slightly in her direction.

"Well yes. Good to see you as well. I trust your flight was good? Settling in alright?" He paused looking at his perfectly manicured nails. "I must say I am saddened to observe and slightly disappointed, that you don't appear to be as prepared for this assignment as I was lead to believe. I easily entered your room and you were startled to see me here." He pursed his lips, tucked his chin down and it appeared as if his eye were following the movement of his umbrella. He seemed to come to a decision.

"Well let's put that all behind us and start fresh, shall we?"

She scowled at him, muttered imprecations under her breath, grabbed some clothes and stomped back to the bathroom, slamming the door. What was it about that man that made her feel like she was twelve?

Dressed in cotton exercise pants and a long sleeve cotton shirt she came out of the bathroom. She hadn't bothered drying her hair. It was so short it would dry on its own. She padded barefoot across the room and slumped on the bed.

"Feeling better?" Mycroft asked the hint of scorn still in his voice.

"Mycroft, it's been five years, as you very well know, since I've done anything remotely this covert. I am a bit out of practice, but don't worry," There was a hard glint in her eye, "it's all coming back to me, quickly."

In her head she was thinking _I am also trying to remember _why_ I didn't kill you back then. _

Her fist tightened slightly and she only loosened them when she became aware that he was watching her like a hawk. His smile widened slightly and she swore. She knew he had read her unspoken thought.

"Well lucky for both of us my brother put a stop to that particular bit of nonsense.' He smirked at her, but then he became quieter as it seemed he was remembering why they were both here. She had never seen this side of Mycroft before, but then she didn't know him as well as she had know Sherlock and that wasn't saying a lot. His eyes were shadowed, but there was something else there. Something she couldn't put her finger on and it made her uneasy. She shoved the thought aside for now, to be taken out later and examined when she was alone.

" Mycroft…about Sherlock," She paused, not sure how to approach this man with these thoughts and getting annoyed with herself at the lump forming in her throat. " I … I am so sorry! I can't believe that he did that." She glanced down at her hands, not manicured, rough and callused, and shook her head back and forth. When she looked up there were tears in her eyes. "It seems, it seems wrong." She bit her lip unable to express why she thought Sherlock jumping off a roof to his death was so far from what she thought she knew about Sherlock.

The shadows in Mycroft's eyes deepened. Maybe she had been wrong, maybe she had misread whatever else it was in his eyes, earlier.

"Yes, well thank you." He cleared his throat. "Yes well let us sit and discuss the reason why you are here, hmm? Although I must say I don't approve of my brother's choice." He looked her up and down, the withering look once again back on his face.

"Sherlock trusted me," she said simply.

Well I do not," he said with a hard edge in his voice. "We both know why."

Why are you agreeing to work with me?" she asked. "You don't trust me. You don't like me. You could do this yourself and probably do a better job of it. Yet here we are. You never do anything without a reason. Sometimes several." She crossed her arms and frowned at him. She felt slightly better saying some of the things that had been bothering her about the whole damned thing.

"I could ask the same of you," he said." Why don't we both just say we are doing a final favour for a dead man. A last request to keep safe a man he cared about and died for."

Her eyebrows lifted at that. She knew she was missing something, but maybe if she let him, Mycroft would explain the last part of that sentence. That information had not been in her notes.

"Shall we get down to business, as they say," Mycroft smiled at her and this time there was a little less frost in it. She shrugged and sat up ready to listen to the plan of action.

oOo

Several hours later Mycroft left the hotel and climbed into the familiar black car. He sat deep in thought, tapping his finger against his lip. He spoke to Not-Anthea, as he still stared straight ahead.

"We will need to let him know that she has arrived in London. He will be most interested in knowing that she is looking after Dr. Watson. Perhaps this will draw him out of hiding."

Not-Anthea turned her head slightly in his direction, ever texting, and raised one perfect eyebrow. She nodded slightly, her fingers never pausing.

**A/N: Next chapter is about John. I promise!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Ok so there wasn't as much swearing in that last chapter as was apparently in my head! This next one is mostly about John. I had a hard time writing what was in my head. I'm nervous about this & I don't want to mess anything up. So if I make any glaring mistakes about British culture, please forgive me & let me know. I'm apparently terrible insecure!**

Chapter 3 – 2 months after RBF

He was tired. Not just in body but heart, soul, spirit. He could have handled the physical aspects of tired. It was normal for him to be physically tired. It was the other three that were so detrimental.

John walked toward the park in the predawn light. It was chilly and damp. Spring was hovering on the edge of appearing. He had been up for at least an hour; he still wasn't sleeping through the night, either from repetition of thoughts that wouldn't still or from the nightmares. Most nights it was from the nightmares. Nightmares of the fall.

He still woke up from them screaming Sherlock's name, pleading with him once again to listen, telling him he couldn't be a fake. He awoke as Sherlock was falling and John couldn't reach him, just after the last words he heard from Sherlock's lips.

_Goodbye John_

It was the guilt that was the most crushing, that made it hard to move some days. He believed in his head and heart and his soul that he had failed Sherlock in every way conceivable. He also knew that Sherlock had lied to him on the roof when he told him he had faked everything, that it was a magic trick, but he wasn't entirely sure why. He suspected Sherlock had been trying to protect him some how, but everything surrounding that day made it so hard to think and even though he remembered every bit of that horrible last conversation he couldn't get through the emotions to the heart of the matter. It was like it was buried in a thick covering, a blanket, opaque and he was not able to see clearly through the turmoil. He was afraid to look to closely. He might not like what he found underneath.

His friends had been trying to convince him otherwise and had done their best to help him through…everything.

_Mike -_ John was living in Mike Stamford's brother's flat. Mike's brother had a girlfriend, soon to be fiancé, he had moved in with and Mike had asked his brother if John could have his flat for now. John had been grateful. It had simply been too hard to stay at Baker Street and being away from there had helped, somewhat. It was easier to pretend things were becoming more normal away from Baker Street. He was going to have to make a decision about going back or leaving forever. He had been and still was far too tired to think about it. For now.

_Sarah -_ Some things were getting easier. He had managed to get a few shifts a week at the surgery thanks to Sarah. Mike had mentioned there was a job opening up at St. Mary's A & E that he was seriously thinking about applying for. He was finding it a lot easier to get through the days when he was working and while he appreciated everything Sarah had been doing for him he needed something to help keep his mind off of…things. Emergency work should help with that. Thinking about Sarah reminded him he was taking her out to dinner as a thank you. They weren't dating or anything. That ship had sailed. She had simply been there after Sherlock had died. She knew enough about what had happened to keep up with the conversation. She had been sympathetic without being cloying. She didn't judge. And most importantly she listened.

_Mrs. Hudson_ - He did talk to Mrs. Hudson, but that was invariably hard as he couldn't promise her that he would be able to move back anytime soon and the conversation usually ended with her in tears, but he knew he would continue to be there for her in other ways. They were the only two people left who had loved Sherlock for being Sherlock.

_Greg_ – This had been the hardest to reconcile. It had been tense during and after the funeral. Greg had seemed as lost as John, but John hadn't been quite ready to forgive Greg at that point, for what John had felt was a betrayal. Greg hadn't given up, however, calling John every couple of days or so to ask how he was doing and to invite him out for a drink. John had eventually said yes in the hopes of ending the incessant phone calls and because he felt bad for Greg underneath it all. The first meeting had been awkward and stilted, but by the end of the evening they seemed to be able to be friends again. John had mostly forgiven him, because he knew that Greg hands had been tied and the man was, after all, only human. Greg had also been instrumental in getting all charges against John dropped, including the one for "chinning" the Chief Super Intendant. John suspected that Mycroft might have had a hand in that as well, but John had difficulty thinking about Mycroft in a calm and rational manner. He was sure he would never forgive Mycroft for letting Moriarty have access to so much information about Sherlock. With Mycroft even more so than his brother, the ends justified the means no matter who got hurt.

Some of these thoughts were flickering through his mind as he walked. He tried to keep his thoughts as mobile as he possibly could, because if he didn't they might never move off from thinking about Sherlock and he didn't think he could recover from that if he dwelt there too long.

By this time, he had reached his favourite bench, in front of the duck pond. The light from the sun was creeping up over the tops of the buildings. Those times when he knew he wasn't going to return to sleep he went for a walk. It was becoming more common, not less for him to visit the ducks. He had several hours to kill before he had to show up at work and he liked the solitude of the park in the early morning hours. He liked watching the ducks. They also didn't judge.

People who didn't know John would have remarked that he seemed to be handling everything and to be picking up the pieces. He was able to keep a mask on in front of most people, but he was really just going through the motions. People who did know him had only to look in his eyes to see how much had been destroyed the day that Sherlock had jumped. The pieces were not gong to be easily picked up. His friends Mike, Sarah, Greg and even Mrs. Hudson were afraid they might never be.

As he sat there he gradually noticed an increase in human activity. People were slowly making their way through the park. Some like him were early morning risers. Hopefully their insomnia wasn't for similar reasons. Some were cutting through on their way to work and of course there were the ever-present joggers. He wondered if he should start running again. He certainly wasn't getting the same kind of physical exercise anymore, not like before with all the running around with…

And there it was. Everything led back to Sherlock. He sighed. It was so hard to go more than five minutes without Sherlock or reminders of Sherlock getting into the conversation in his head. It didn't help that every time he turned around he kept expecting him to be there and he wanted to tell him about his day, ask him if there were any new cases. He felt his presence everywhere and hear his quiet surprised chuckle. He missed his arrogant verbosity especially when the silence surrounding John was too loud. On days when Sherlock was bored, but they were out and about, Sherlock would tell John everything about everyone. For fun. For John.

_Look at the ducks, Watson. Ducks aren't people and people watching reminds you of that brilliant bastard._

He sighed again and stood up. There was no point in sitting here being morose. He had to get back to the flat. There was work to go to and he had to get cleaned up and get ready for the day.

Not watching where he was going he almost ran onto a young woman who was out jogging.

"Sorry. I am so sorry." She smiled at him, nodded as if to say it was ok and kept running. He supposed she was trying to keep up her pace and didn't have time to stop. Shame she didn't stop. She was quite pretty. He had always liked red heads.

_Nice, Watson, best mates dead, but you still have space in your head to think about pretty girls._ He grimaced to himself and moved off.

oOo

Most of a day later and now on this side of dark, he was heading back to the flat (not home, home was in limbo right now), to get changed and ready to pick up Sarah. His day had been pretty uneventful, but at least it was better than sitting around the flat, not doing anything. He had spent enough days like when he first came back from Afghanistan and then after Sherlock had died.

He was deep in thought, once again not paying any attention to his surroundings, when he ran into someone. At least this morning he had managed to avoid the jogger. Not this time. The other person slammed into him hard enough that John actually staggered.

"Sorry. I am so sorry." he replied automatically. _Dick_ was what actually went through his head. The other man just grunted, said nothing and shambled off down the road. John mentally shrugged, got his keys out and let himself into the building and into the flat.

As he removed his coat, he heard the rustle of paper. He paused, thinking that that was odd, and searched his pockets. There was a piece of paper in the right hand pocket that he knew he had not put there. He opened it and read it.

**It would be beneficial to your continued good health to become more aware of your surroundings. Pay attention. Someone has been following you. Do try to stay alive.**

_What the fuck?_

He stood there, stunned, looking at the paper in his hand, slowly blinking as his brain, which seemed to be moving slower than normal tried to process the writing on the paper.

He slowly sank down into the chair, coat and paper still in his hands. His first thought was that he was finally cracking up. It was Sherlock's handwriting and most definitely his tone. Was this some cruel joke or was it simply a piece of paper from before that had been in his pocket all this time. It couldn't be that. Sherlock never wrote a note when he could have texted. He shook his head, extremely puzzled and possibly beginning to hyperventilate.

Although he didn't have Sherlock astounding recall he also never remember getting a note like that from anyone, let alone Sherlock.

He looked at the note again and finally took in the meaning. Someone was following him. Did that mean what it seemed to mean? Was someone really following him? Was he in danger? Or was it simply some twisted reporter after him again trying to get more information about the fake genius? He thought that was behind him as most newspapers had finally switched topics to whatever was the latest scandal. Sherlock was yesterday's news for most people.

He sat there looking at the piece of paper for the longest time and then came to a decision. He picked up his mobile and called Sarah.

"Yeah, hi Sarah. It's John. No everything's all right. It's just that something's come up and I need to reschedule. I am really sorry. No, no really I'm fine." He paused. "I may be better than fine. Look I have to go. I'll call you tomorrow. Ok. Thanks, Bye."

He hung up and stood for a minute more. Then…

"Right"

He put his coat back on and headed out the door. There was something he needed to check out and he was trying desperately to not get his hopes up.

oOo

She had been following Dr. Watson since early morning. She was beginning to wish he would get some sleep, because all the early mornings were starting to take its toll. She had insisted on taking long shifts when she and Mycroft had set up surveillance, because it was her assignment. She was in charge. That and because the longer she watched him the more curious she became. He appeared so unassuming and ordinary, but what she saw and what she overheard from how he interacted with friends and strangers and what they said about him showed he was far from ordinary. She was beginning to see what had intrigued Sherlock so much.

But she was getting tired and she was going to have to switch things around with the rest of Mycroft's teams. She was going to make mistakes. She had almost done that this morning when she had almost, quite literally run into him while out jogging. She hadn't really been out for a run. She was just doing a sweep check, when she realized he was already at his bench. The night team had been getting ready to hand him over to her, but they hadn't radioed in yet to let her know he was already at the park. That was one of the other things she needed to speak to Mycroft about. Some of his team had difficulties following protocol. That was sloppy.

She also wanted to talk to Mycroft about slapping some sense into John Watson. She was beginning to think that they needed to let him know what was going on and why they were tailing him, because he was not being careful. He stuck to the same routine every day, walked the same places, never varied any of his habits, he wasn't paying attention and it was going to get him killed. Someone was very interested in killing him and she was very interested in preventing it.

When Mycroft had come to see her that first night she had arrived in London, he had discussed the whole situation about Moriarty and all the events leading up to Sherlock jumping. He had not held back his own involvement and she had been interested to see how genuinely sorry he appeared. She had never thought she'd live to see the day that Mycroft Holmes would be sorry. Mycroft had also discussed the situation that had led her to being here.

"_Sherlock was certain that Moriarty would eventually try to kill him. He was worried that if he died or if Moriarty died there would be repercussions and John would bear the brunt of them. He wanted to ensure John's protection. We discussed various ways we could arrange this. Sherlock felt that John would chaff at being followed around, so we decided to do so without his consent. We discussed various people we could use, but your name kept coming up. Sherlock was adamant. He felt you are the best considering your experience and your other," he waved a lazy hand in her direction, "attributes, which would, shall we say, soften the blow if John found out you were protecting him"_

She must have looked puzzled at that last statement because he rolled his eyes at her and then said, _"My dear you are not unattractive. In fact you are a singularly striking woman. John Watson is something of a ladies man. Your petite stature should also make him feel protective of you. He probably won't shoot you should he find you following him." _He smirked, _"At least not right away."_

It was her turn to roll her eyes, but she filled that particular bit of information away in case she ever needed to use it and they finished their discussion.

Since she had arrived, Mycroft had received intelligence form someone, that there was an assassin in London with his sights set on Watson. They didn't have a name…yet.

She had followed John around all day, had seen him head back to his apartment (_flat _she said to herself – she _was_ trying to learn), and was getting ready to turn him over to the night team when he came out of his flat again. She knew he was suppose to have dinner with Dr. Sawyer tonight, but he didn't hail a taxi and he appeared to be heading in the opposite direction. He seemed to be in something of a hurry. Something had clearly happened and she wanted to find out what it was.

As she pulled away from her hiding spot she noticed movement between her and Watson. She stopped and assessed the situation. Someone else came out of the shadows and appeared to be tailing him. She debated whether to call it in, but decided to see how it was going to play out. She wanted more information first.

oOo

John hurried down the road. Mike's brother's flat wasn't terribly far from Baker Street and he felt the need to go on foot. He didn't want to catch a taxi. He was practically running anyway and he would take some of Sherlock's short cuts. In his hurry he forgot about the note's warning. He didn't look around, he didn't observe his surroundings and he didn't notice the two people who were following him, one out of concern, one with intent to harm.

**A/N: I hope to have the next chapter up in a couple of days. It should be action packed and probably bloody. Thanks for checking out my story. Special thanks to hjohn302 and sneakysnakes for following along!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who's following along and checking out my story. I had soooo much fun writing this chapter. It's is more action packed and bloody. Thanks to hjohn302 and sneakysnakes for their lovely reviews. And sneakysnakes – as promised!**

Chapter 4 – Same Night

John took one of Sherlock's shortcuts through an alley. His heart was pounding and he was desperately trying not to think about what the note could have meant. Not the contents. He wasn't thinking about the contents _at all_. He was thinking about who could have written it. He had to get to Baker Street and check out the flat.

One part of his brain was chiding the rest not to get his hopes up. It could all end in disaster and heart break so easily. _ Sherlock is dead. You saw him fall. _It whispered to him. It also told him that even if Sherlock were alive and he had written the note, there was no guarantee that he would be at the flat. The rest of John's brain told that small part to please shut it. He'd deal with the repercussions later. This was the first time in a long time grief wasn't his primary emotion and he clung to that like a drowning man. He hurried down the alley.

Something on a subconscious level must have alerted him. He heard a noise coming from behind him. He belatedly remembered the contents of the note.

He could almost hear Sherlock's voice in his ear.

_John, you are an idiot._

_Yes, thank you Sherlock. I believe you are quite right._ He sighed.

He turned and saw a very large man coming towards him carrying a large baseball bat in his hands. Or a small log. Hard to tell in the dim light of the alley. As John reached for his gun, he realized he had left it back at the flat. Along with his mobile. He'd been in such a hurry.

_Really John. I thought you were more intelligent than that. I had hopes you know._

_Shut up Sherlock._

John's body filled with adrenalin as it prepared itself for a fight. He was alerted to noises coming from the other end of the alley. He glanced behind him. Big and Ugly wasn't alone. There were four (_four!_) more large and ugly men making their way towards him.

_Oh shit!_

John felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. Even with all of his hand-to-hand combat training, he might have been able to take on two or three, but five was pushing it!

He may have felt scared at that moment, but he wasn't a coward. He sized up the competition and decided to take out Ugly #1. Without thinking about it anymore he ran in hard and came in low. Ugly #1 was momentarily caught off guard. He started to swing the baseball bat, but John had a head start. He was able to duck under the swing and he tackled Ugly to the ground. The brute smacked his head on the ground, hard. John finished up with a left hook to Ugly #1's jaw and he was out.

By the time he discovered #1 was out, Uglies 2 to 5 had run up behind him. 2 and 3 grabbed his arms and yanked them up high behind John's back. He grunted, determined not to cry out. It hurt like hell and his bad shoulder started to burn. Ugly #4 stood in front of him and grabbed the top of John's head and jerked it up hard. They were puting tremendous strain on his shoulders and neck, but he just glared at #4. His head was yanked again and John felt a few strands of hair say goodbye to his scalp.

John was feeling some trepidation because he hadn't really seen Ugly #5 yet, but he figured he had enough to be going on with at the moment. Ugly #4 loomed in close. He let go of John's head, pulled back his arm and swung hard. John gasped and saw stars. He wondered briefly if he was going to pass out. Ugly #4 must have been wearing a ring, because John could feel blood coursing down his cheek. He shook his head to clear it. He tried to prepare himself for further blows, but he knew if they kept this up, he wasn't going to last long. Lack of sleep and sparse eating had taken its toll.

_Sleeping and eating are important, John._

_Hey that's my line! Smart arse, arrogant twit._

Ugly #4 drew back his arm again.

There was a strange moment while John was waiting to be hit again, when the man in front of him hesitated. Then John thought he heard a thud. In the dim light of the alley he started wondering:

was that thud?

does Ugly #4 look surprised?

3. Why is Ugly #4's body falling towards me?

Because it was. Ugly #4's body was slowly falling forward towards the three men standing there. Uglies 2 and 3 seemed almost as surprised.

"Charlie mate, wotcher playing at?" One of the Uglies cried out.

Charlie's (aka Ugly #4) body hit John. He was big and brawny and his weight hitting John and the other two was enough to push them all back. Charlie collapsed, face first, sliding down all three men. John glanced down at the man on the ground. It looked like a throwing knife was sticking out of his back.

John blinked slowly, wondering what the hell that meant, when he heard a faint whistling sound, another thud and a gurgling noise. He glanced to his right. Ugly #2 had his hands up around his throat. Blood was gushing out of his neck and mouth. He sank to his knees and also fell to the ground.

John was momentarily stunned. In that split second Ugly #3 managed to grab both of John's arms and heaved up on them again. This time John cried out. Then his brain, while nowhere near as fast as Sherlock's, decided it was time to kick back into combat mode. He assessed the situation. He was beginning to realize that whomever it was throwing the knives, was picking off the Uglies in a cold and precise way. They must have been good, because the two kills so far had been accurately placed despite the dim lighting in the alley. That person wasn't anywhere in sight either. He sincerely hoped, whoever it was, they were on his side.

As this was going through John's head, Ugly #3 must have been an uncommonly brave man or uncommonly stupid. Or perhaps he was more afraid of whoever was in charge of the idiots sent against John, rather than the knife thrower. He reached down, holding both of John's arms with one hand. He calmly pulled the knife out of his dead friend's neck, using his foot to hold the body in place. John tried shifting his weight to push the Ugly over and set about stomping and kicking backwards, but it was no use. He must have weighed twice as much as John and he looked twice as tall. He was a tree.

Ugly 3# calmly took the knife, covered with the other man's blood and held it against John's throat. Ugly #5 decided to make an appearance at that moment and stepped forward into John's vision. He was calmly smoking a cigarette. He called out to the dark, in a voice that was much more cultured sounding than the other man's had been.

"You may have disabled two of my men and the good doctor took out the third, but we seem to have reached an impass. Kindly put away your toys and join us, otherwise my man here will slit the doctor's throat and that would be a shame. I did have questions for him before he died. Oh well." He sounded almost bored.

The only reply was a third knife flying through the air to stick up to the hilt in Ugly #5's chest. John was impressed in spite of the situation. That shot was a direct hit to the heart. The man crumpled slowly to the ground, without another sound.

Ugly #3 suddenly looked nervous. John didn't really blame him. Even though John's life was on the line, who ever the knife wielder was, they were very calmly and efficiently eliminating everyone. They didn't seem to have any worries about John having a knife to his throat.

Ugly #3 must have finally reached the end of his courage, because he violently shoved John away from him, dropped the knife and took off running back down the alley. He shoved John so hard that it sent him sprawling to the ground and John hit his head against the pavement. As he blacked out, he thought he heard a gun shot. He also thought he heard light footsteps coming his way. And then he heard nothing.

oOo

When he regained consciousness, he was lying face up on the ground and someone was lightly patting his face.

"Dr. Watson, Dr. Watson? Can you hear me?" A little firmer. "John, I need you to wake up now! Come on."

_Hmmm,_ he thought. The voice sounded feminine. _I guess it can't be Sherlock._ He started giggling a little at that thought. _(Oh God my head hurts!) Girl Sherlock! Maybe he's been reincarnated as a girl! _He giggled some more.

He must have been giggling out loud, because the patting on his face stopped. _Good!_ It had been annoying. The person, girl, whatever, started talking, surprise evident in her tone.

"You're laughing? Good God, you really are the most unusual man I've ever met. And that's saying something!"

John's next thought was that she wasn't British. American maybe? He couldn't tell and his head hurt too much. He slowly blinked open his eyes. His vision came into focus. He was staring into an absolutely lovely pair of eyes.

A woman was crouched over him, with a look on her face warring between concern and amusement. He recognized at the same moment she realized he was awake, that she must have been the person who had killed all the Uglies. A slight shiver went down his back as he remembered how coldly and efficiently she had killed those men. He opened his mouth to address this, but what came out was:

"You are absolutely lovely. Did you know?"

_Oh God Watson. That's a bit Not Good!_

She frowned at him, puzzled and then her face cleared as if she were remembering something. She grinned at him, her whole face lighting up. Her eyes gleamed with wicked humour.

"You are certainly a piece of work, Dr. Watson!"

He looked into her eyes and finally asked the question that had been plaguing him since the first knife came flying out of the dark.

"Who the hell are you?"

She hesitated as if she wasn't sure how to answer that and then she came to a decision.

"I'm Mary," she said simply and she helped him to his feet.

John thought to himself, that Mary really was the loveliest name.

**A/N: I hoped you had a much fun with that chapter as I did writing it. I really wanted this one up and running. I'm not sure when the next chapter will be up. Apparently the house won't clean itself!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Apologies to all. I was checking how the story looked posted (because I'm that needy) and noticed that the 3 questions John asks didn't post properly. I had checked it in the original document & they're there, but they didn't transfer when down loaded. Note to self – check document on the site before posting! They are easy to figure out, but just in case here they are:**

** was that thud?**

** does Ugly #4 look surprised?**

**3. Why is Ugly #4's body falling towards me?**

**The next couple of chapters are for background info so please don't shoot me. There's back story in there which will hopefully answer some questions everyone, including John, may have! (7 drafts and many edits later :P)**

**Special thanks to IzzyDelta for following and thanks to all for coming along on my little adventure. This story has taken me by surprise at times and is developing a life of its own.**

Chapter 5 – The Next Morning

John slowly blinked his eyes open. He frowned. He was warm, he was mostly comfortable and he didn't know where he was. As the room slowly came into focus he realized his face felt stiff on one side, his head hurt and his left shoulder was complaining. He raised a hand to his cheek and felt some gauze taped there. The cheek had a small pinched tugging feel to it. Stitches maybe?

_What the hell happened last night?_

Images started flashing through his groggy brain – an alley, some really big and ugly men, being hit, knives flying through the air, not much after that, except maybe a pair of lovely eyes. Yes, he definitely remembered the eyes. There was something else hovering on the edge of his thoughts, something to do with Sherlock?

_The note!_

He remembered getting a note, thinking it might be from Sherlock and that's how he ended up in the alley. He sat up with that thought and immediately regretted it. His head started pounding.

_Ah, concussion_. He groaned.

A voice came from over to his left.

"Hey, take it easy. You hit your head pretty hard last night."

A small, feminine looking hand came into view holding a glass of water. He looked at it and then at the speaker standing beside the bed. A petite, young woman was standing there. He looked into her face. She was very pretty, with short red hair and a heart shaped face. There was a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Her eyes were a brilliant green. She was smiling gently at him.

The eyes in the face were the same eyes he remembered from last night. It had been too dark in the alley last night to see their colour. He looked at her and an unbidden thought of what he might have said to her came flashing back.

He groaned and placed his hands on his head, rubbing them through his hair, wincing when he came across the bump on the side. A faint blush was creeping over his skin.

He was embarrassed about what he had said, even if he hadn't really had control of his mouth at the time.

"What do you remember about last night?" she asked as he looked up again and took the glass from her, with a nod of thanks.

"Enough," he said after he swallowed the water down. "I remember an alley and some blokes pounding on me." He squinted at her, carefully, because the movement pulled at his bruised and stitched face. "It's Mary, right?"

She nodded, looking at him curiously. "Anything else?"

He looked at her wondering what he should say about the knife throwing. He didn't know her, didn't know where he was and she was obviously deadly, but there was something in her, about her that made him trust that she was looking after his best interests. It was a little astonishing how quickly he put her in his 'safe' category, not safe to the dead men, obviously, but safe for him. There really had been only one other person he had trusted that quickly and implicitly and that was Sherlock.

_Interesting_

"Ummm, something about knives?" he frowned. He remembered something else, right at the end. He remembered climbing into a big, black car and after that nothing else. He groaned again.

"Mycroft!" he said it like a swear word. "This has to do with Mycroft." He didn't say it like a question, more like a belief system. There was a choking noise from his left. He looked at Mary in astonishment, because she was laughing. Not at him, but more as if they were sharing the same feelings regarding Mycroft. He raised a quizzical eyebrow at her. Her face had broken into a huge grin and her eyes were alight with wicked humour. It turned a vey pretty face into something quite remarkable. It also did something to his heart, because it began to beat faster.

_Get a grip! _He scolded himself.

"Look why don't I order you up some breakfast and while you eat, I'll do my best to tell you what's been going on behind your back, all right? There are some painkillers on the bedside table. The doctor left them for you." He nodded, still feeling bemused and unsure. He was feeling hungry however and it might help clear some of the cobwebs.

As he watched her go to the door, he finally took a look at where he was. He was in a fairly large bedroom in a very large four-poster bed. The expensive cotton sheets and down comforter on the bed, the ensuite bathroom he could glimpse from were he sat, as well as the tasteful yet expensive decorating told him that the person who's residence he was staying at was well off. He was wearing a comfortable t-shirt and sweats. He recognized them as being his own. They must have been brought from the flat. The whole thing fairly screamed Mycroft. He must be at Mycroft's house in one of the guest bedrooms. Mycroft was really not on his top-ten list of people he wanted to talk to, but he did want answers, even if he wasn't going to like them.

Mary partially opened the bedroom door and stuck her head around it. He could hear her talking to someone just outside the door as she asked for a tray to be brought up with breakfast. He heard her tell the person to let Mr. Holmes know the doctor was awake, but not to come up until after he had eaten and was dressed. He felt grateful to her for that. He didn't want to punch Mycroft in the face on an empty stomach, wearing pajamas.

Mary came back and sat in a rather opulent winged backed chair beside the bed. It was close enough to the bed that she could put her feet up on it, with her knees bent. He noticed that her feet were bare. It seemed she was just as comfortable with him as he was becoming with her. She looked at him, opened her mouth and then hesitated.

"What?" he asked.

She tried again. "It's a really long story."

"I'm not going anywhere."

She nodded and then her eyes became slightly unfocused as if she was thinking.

"Right. I'll try to hit the highlights and if there's time later I'll fill you in on the gory details." She grinned at him, but this time the humour didn't reach her eyes.

"I'll start at the beginning, five years ago and then will work from there, ok?"

He nodded, feeling more curious by the minute.

"Five years ago I met an amazing man. He saved my life, changed the course of it and he is the reason I have been following you for the last two months." She paused, because she saw questions in his eyes. "Look there's a lot to get through and I promise I will answer any questions you have."

He nodded, a tad reluctantly.

"Ok," she said taking a deep breath and looking at him with some discomfort. "What I'm going to tell you is top secret or almost all of it is. But I'm tired of games and secrets and I'm not going to lie to you, ever. Do you believe me?" she asked him. John could see she was anxious about his answer. He did believe her, so he said so.

"Ok. I use to be an assassin." John blinked and then, wondering where this was going, nodded his head at her to continue.

"I won't tell you much about that, except to say the people I was working for were a collection of representatives from various friendly governments. Canadian," she indicated herself. _Huh. She's Canadian, not American._ "American, French, British and a few others. It was part of a secret intelligence group. Some of us had the job to eliminate persons of interest, shall we say, and we were trained with in an inch of our lives." She sighed tiredly at the thought and rubbed her forehead. "Those in charge would send us out to different parts of the world to try to eliminate threats. Usually people that hadn't really done anything _yet_, but had the potential to. Pre-emptive strikes as it were," she frowned as if remembering something unpleasant. John figured there were a lot of unpleasant memories associated with a job like that. "Whether what we did was right or not, it worked for a while, but then everything got a little out of control. There were certain people, involved in the operation, people who wanted to do more than just eliminate threats. They were interested in destabilizing governments, some of them friendly. There was one man in particular, ex-British Army, a Colonel Moran, who came up with the whole idea. He was willing to do anything to see his plan in action." She stopped again and John could see her eyes were dark and troubled. Clearly talking about this was hard for her. He waited for her to continue. Mary took another deep breath and then she spoke again.

"I didn't know any of this at the time. I found out about a lot of it later. All I knew was I was sent on a mission to England to kill a seemingly unimportant government official, who actually was very important, in a behind the scenes sort of way. I didn't know he was in charge of our little group of assassins from the British side of things. A lot of that information was classified. Still is. It was really a power play. Get rid of him and the rest of those not involved with this mad plot would have been manipulated into doing what Moran wanted."

John had promised he wasn't going to interrupt, but he couldn't let this one go.

"Mycroft?"

"Mycroft. Who is probably the stupidest target to go after." She rolled her eyes. "He's basically untouchable. I knew that from the mission brief and background check, but," she spread her hands "you don't exactly get to question orders. So I went and started digging around, trying to find the best way to kill Mycroft Holmes."

Part of John was appalled at how seemingly casual she was as she discussed killing another person and part was completely fascinated with the idea of someone having the audacity to think they could get rid of Mycroft that easily.

"While doing research I came across information regarding his brother. He was just starting out in his consulting detective work. He was beginning his work with NSY. I was wondering if there was someway I could get to Mycroft through Sherlock, but I was also fascinated about him from my research and I wanted to see how his mind worked. About the same time I was beginning to wonder what I had gotten myself into and something wasn't sitting right about the whole assignment. I couldn't put my finger on it exactly, but my gut was telling me to hold off. I decided to go talk to Sherlock, on the spur of the moment. I went to his flat and rang the bell, not really knowing why I was there or what I was going to say. And then he came to the door. Dressed in pajamas and a silk house coat, for god's sake." John chuckled. "I was totally blown away. Here was this tall, gorgeous looking man standing there, with those wild black curls and crazy eyes, like a god-damn Greek Statue come to life. And I stood there with my mouth open."

She paused, a fierce grin on her face as she remembered that moment. John was only slightly interested to note he was feeling jealous at her description of his best friend, but he was also fascinated to hear someone he didn't know discuss their first impressions of Sherlock. And it wasn't as if he hadn't seen other people's reaction to Sherlock's physical aspects. He had turned the heads of women and men a like. It's just for some reason the thought of Mary feeling that way…

"And then?" he prompted, trying to get on with the story and off his uncomfortable thoughts.

"And then he opened his mouth!" she crinkled her nose at him and they both laughed. John felt relief over her reaction to Sherlock.

_Jeez John, really nice._

At that moment there was a knock on the door. Mary got up and came back with a tray. There was tea with two cups as well as a big breakfast. She filled a cup for him and one for herself and sat back sipping, while John tucked in.

"Anyway, he did that deduction thing, rattled off who I was, where I was from, why I was there. He assured me that although he himself had wished to kill Mycroft on many occasions, it was not a good idea. He knew I was feeling reluctance and he figured out that the people I was working for had a hidden agenda. The long and short of it is that with his help we stopped that group, prevented Mycroft from being killed and I switched jobs." She set her teacup down. "He also saved my life almost at the cost of his own and I owed him for that and a lot more. Mycroft wasn't too happy about the whole thing and felt I was more involved with the attempted coupe then I had let on, that I was just covering my ass. I think he was personally affronted that things like this were going on around him and for once he didn't have a clue. Sherlock convinced him otherwise. The deal was I wasn't to ever come back to England or go anywhere near Mycroft Holmes again. He tried to keep me away from Sherlock as well, but Sherlock being Sherlock would have nothing to do with that and we kept in touch, sporadically over the years."

John paused in his eating and looked at her. He knew there was a lot more to her story and that she had glossed over most of it. Any other time he would have been fascinated, but he was feeling a little impatient. He spoke up to get the story moving along.

"And yet here you are."

"Here I am," she said simply, waiting for the question that was in his eyes.

"So how did you get here and how on earth are you allowed anywhere near Mycroft?"

"The only reason is Sherlock sent for me," she said.

John was momentarily stunned and put down his fork.

**A/N: What started out as one really long chapter is now two, but I'm posting both at the same time, so you won't have to wait **


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 – Same time

"What do you mean Sherlock sent for you?" he asked almost a touch of panic in his voice and his face was slightly pale. He wondered if he was going to be sick.

"I'm sorry John. I didn't really mean to imply anything," Mary sounded sad and seemed genuinely sorry.

"It's ok. You just took me by surprise, especially after last night…"

"What about last night?" She sounded curious, but John shook his head.

"I'll tell you when you're finished. I want to hear about how Sherlock was able to get you to London."

She nodded her head slowly and took another sip of tea, thinking.

"There isn't too much more to tell. I got a message from Sherlock, a note really asking me to come and watch over you in case something happened to him. He was afraid that you were going to be in some sort of danger. Or at least the note implied that."

"Wait, you said something earlier, before you told me how you met Sherlock. You said you've been following me around for almost two months. When did Sherlock send this note?" John was beginning to feel anxious. He didn't think he was going to like her answer.

She was watching him carefully. "I got it about two months before he… before he jumped."

John went white with shock and then red with anger.

"Two...two months…he…he sent…to you…two months _before…_?"

His voice dropped to an angry whisper. "Are you trying to say that that arrogant, selfish bastard knew two months before that he was going to jump!" John crossed his arms. His eyes were smarting with unshed tears. How long had Sherlock been planning this, playing him for the fool?

Mary sat up, put down her cup and leaned in close to John. She placed a cautious hand on his arm.

"No John," she talked to him in a low and gentle voice. "I don't think he was planning on killing himself, not then. He was afraid someone was going to hurt him or worse hurt you. I think he was worried that he was going to die. I think he was afraid that _you_ were going to die. He was asking me to watch your back in case he couldn't be there for you." Her voice was thick with unshed tears. John looked at her and remembered that Sherlock was her friend as much as he was his. He wiped his eyes with an impatient hand and nodded slowly. She kept her hand on his arm and continued speaking to him in a quiet voice.

"After he died, Mycroft sent me more information. He didn't tell me everything until I got to England. He didn't fill me in about Moriarty until I got here. I read some of the newspaper accounts on the internet." Both John and Mary looked angry when she mentioned Moriarty and the newspapers. "Mycroft was not happy Sherlock had involved me, but he told me he was willing to work with me as a finally request to Sherlock. I guess he figured if I was good enough for Sherlock…" she shrugged. "It doesn't really matter. Neither one of us trusts the other, but for Sherlock we'll work together. With Mycroft's assistance I've been following you around. There hadn't been much of anything going on until yesterday, although Mycroft told me that he was getting reports that someone was asking questions about you. I think he was worried that the threat of someone trying to kill you was becoming greater. He didn't really tell me more than that. I was following you last night when those walking trees set upon you." She paused again, swallowing hard and her voice was bitter when she spoke.

"It's worse though than just some idiots trying to beat the crap out of you. I tried calling for back up but couldn't contact anyone. Turns out the back up team had been killed, probably by a sniper. When I was finally able to contact Mycroft he said he knew something was going on because we hadn't checked in. He was able to figure out approximately where we were because someone had knocked out all the CCTV feeds in that area. He's furious about that. He thought he had control over them. This is big. Someone must have been planning this. I don't know if you remember, but the one said he had questions for you."

John looked at her. He didn't care that Mycroft was worried. He didn't care that Mycroft was angry about his precious cameras. John was angry. He was angry with Sherlock for keeping him in the dark _again _and for not telling him what had been going on in his head. He was very angry with Mycroft. Mycroft, who followed his own agenda, who let Moriarty know all those things about Sherlock, all his secrets and then used them to bring Sherlock down. Mycroft, who acted as if the ends justified the means.

John wasn't saying anything and Mary could tell he was still upset. There was a question she had for him, but she wasn't sure if this was a good time. She shifted in her seat. John looked at her and could tell there was something she wanted to ask. He sighed.

'What is it? I'm not going to bite." He huffed.

"Why did you go that way last night? We were told you were going out with Dr. Sawyer. But you went in the opposite direction and in a hurry? What happened?"

John shouldn't have been surprised that she knew he was seeing Sarah for dinner, but it was one more thing to be annoyed about. And he was reluctant to tell her about the note he had been sure was from Sherlock, but she had been honest with him.

"Someone bumped into me and put a note in my pocket. I thought, well I thought it might be from Sherlock and I thought he might be back at Baker Street. So I was going there to see if, well to see if he was there." He said the last part in a rush of embarrassment. He looked at Mary hoping she wasn't thinking he was completely daft. But she was just looking at him, not giving anything away.

"Can I see the note?" she asked.

He nodded. "It's in my coat pocket." John's coat was hanging in the closet. Mary went to get it and pulled the note out of the pocket. She looked at it as she started walking towards John, but then stopped and frowned.

"You're sure this is Sherlock's hand writing?"

"Yes. Definitely," John said confused. "Why?"

In answer Mary pulled her mobile out of her pocket and open something on the phone. As she got closer he could tell it was a photograph of something.

"I took pictures of all the information I was sent, including the note from Sherlock. Can you look at the note and tell me if Sherlock wrote it?" her voice sounded shaky.

Still confused he watched as she pinched and zoomed on the photo bringing the image in closer. He took the phone out of her hand and looked at the writing in the note. Now he frowned.

"It's not Sherlock's," he said. Something weird was going on and he didn't like it.

"Do you recognize the writing?" she asked, trying and not succeeding to keep her voice steady.

"Yes," said John. "It's Mycroft's!"


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: This one really does have lots of swearing and allusions to torture.**

Chapter 7 – same time

"Mycroft?" Mary replied, her voice soft and bewildered. "Are you sure?"

She looked up at John and as John looked into her eyes he saw a wealth of emotions pass through them, confusion, fear, hurt, but simmering below them all was rage and it was the rage that concerned John the most. Something deeper was going on than just Mycroft and his web of conspiracies.

"Yes. I'd know Sherlock's writing anywhere and I've seen Mycroft's enough to be sure. I can see how you could have confused the two. They are similar. Probably something to do with going to posh public schools and generations of wealth." John was trying to lighten the mood, because he was concerned that this could rapidly get out of hand. There was more to this than a five year old grudge, but he didn't have all the facts and it was making him nervous. One corner of his brain was also painfully aware of the fact that he probably _was_ going to be wearing pajamas when he punched Mycroft.

Mary started at the picture of the note on her mobile again and was blinking rapidly. Her face became pale and she abruptly sat down on the foot of the bed, her back to John with her head leaning against one of the ornate posts. She shuddered slightly and he could just barely hear her next words.

"I am such a fool."

John hastily moved the breakfast tray to one side and scrambled around to where she is sitting. He sat next to her, looking at her.

"Why? Because you were fooled by Mycroft Holmes? You wouldn't be the first," he grimaced.

She shook her head vehemently. "No, no, it's more than that. Sherlock would only ever text me. He wrote to me once, but when he did want something he'd text. I knew that and like a fool I ignored it. I was fooled by the tone of the letter and the signature. It was like a joke between us. I always accused him, teased him of being distant, emotionally and then he was far away so he always signed his texts **adf** – a distant friend- stupid I know, but we thought it might fool Mycroft. He was so adamant about Sherlock staying away from me," she frowned again at the note.

John hesitated with his next question. "Mary, were you…did you have feelings for Sherlock? Is that why this is so hard?"

She directed her gaze at him, still frowning. Then she shook her head in exasperation. "No, nothing like that! Yes he was intriguing, but no he was like a brother, a really annoying older brother. No! Mycroft has manipulated my feelings for Sherlock for what I _owe_ him. He knew what happened between us. You can't know how awful it was," she almost sobbed and then clamped down on it. " He argued against us staying in touch and he used my feelings for all of this to get me to come here." She paused "Why? There's something more going on." She stood up quickly, almost catching John off guard.

"And I'm going to find out what the hell he's playing at."

She moved to the door. John jumped up and caught her arm. The rage in her eyes was a lot closer to the surface. He had heard it underneath the pain and confusion while she had been talking, but it was rising. She seemed like the type of person who could normally control what they were feeling, but from personal experience it wasn't always good to do that. When the emotions did come to the surface it could be potentially dangerous.

Mary looked down at the hand on her arm and her face tightened. "John you really don't want to do that. I know it doesn't look it, but I can throw you across this room." She tried to pull away, but John gripped her tighter. He was afraid he might be bruising her, but it didn't look like she could feel it.

"No you won't," he said sternly. He was using his best Captain's voice, the one that usually got Sherlock to behave. "You need to sit down and take some deep breaths, before you go tearing off after Mycroft. If you go down there like this, his staff will shoot you!" He gave her a little shake.

She glared at him, but he didn't flinch. She slowly let out a breath and then nodded tightly. She glanced down at the floor. John could tell she was having trouble controlling her anger, but he didn't let go until he felt her start to relax. As soon as he released her, she shot for the door and was out. It wasn't often someone could get the upper hand on him in a situation like this, but she did. And she was fast. John raced into the hall. He looked quickly in either direction. A man was posted outside the bedroom, probably the one Mary had been talking to when she asked for breakfast. The man pointed to the left as he started talking into his wrist, letting Mycroft's staff know there might be a situation with Ms. Morstan. John, realizing that must be Mary's last name, shouted at the security guard to tell them not to shoot her. He didn't know if saying that was going to make things worse

If you had told John a week ago that he would be running barefoot, in his pajamas after a very short, very angry assassin in Mycroft Holmes' house, he would have told you to pull the other one. He could just see Mary ahead of him down the hall, as she raced around the corner. He picked up his pace and caught sight of her as she came up to a closed door. She flung open the door and John could hear it bang against the wall. He was surprised that no one had stopped her. Mycroft must have been expecting her and had decided to let her have her say. John didn't think he was that stupid, but then Mycroft didn't know how angry Mary was. Or did he? John shook his head, which was pounding even harder.

_Stupid! You have a concussion and you are supposed to be resting. Yeah, like that was going to happen anytime soon!_

He got there just in time to see about seven stone of pure fury reach Mycroft's desk. Mary looked like an angry cat and Mycroft was just sitting there his usual unruffled self, his hands clasped together in prayer position, reminiscent of Sherlock_._

"Mycroft," Mary spat at him. "What the _fuck _is going on? Did you really write this note? The one to get me to come over here and look after John? Did you?" She stood there waving the mobile in his face.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Mary. John thought Mycroft was braver than he was as Mycroft held out his hand slowly to take the mobile from her. She stood, vibrating in her anger. He then raised both eyebrows and she almost flung the phone at him. He glanced down at the photo of the note. He almost smirked, but didn't. John felt that was probably wise.

"Ah yes. The note you received enticing you to come over and protect Dr. Watson.'

_Entice? Really? Was that smart_? John shook his head at Mycroft, hoping he would understand that he needed to choose his words more carefully. Mycroft now quirked an eyebrow in John's direction and nodded his head slightly, as if to say he was aware of the situation.

"What the hell are you playing at? What kind of twisted game is this about? You have made your feelings perfectly clear in regards to me and yet you set up this whole charade, making me think you were Sherlock, in order for me to come here and protect John? What the fuck is going on, Mycroft?"

"Would you have come if _I _had asked you?" he must have seen some kind of response in her eyes, because he continued. John sidled closer so he could see Mary's face and intervene if he had to. "No, I didn't think so. Despite our differences and past history, Ms. Morstan, I was not lying when I suggested to you that you are the best at what you do. Since leaving your previous employment," this time he did smirk "you have very successfully set yourself up as a body guard. I have been well informed that you have rendered this service to a number of important government officials and civilians, at home and abroad and have succeeded in stopping assassination attempts. I wanted the best for John's safety. Unfortunately for me, that was you. As I knew you wouldn't come if I asked you, I used your relationship with Sherlock to bring you here." He placed the phone delicately on his desk.

Mary leaned in closer, anger still evident in her voice as she spoke softly to Mycroft.

"Was Sherlock aware of any of this?"

Mycroft sniffed, "Not directly, no." John could see Mary relaxing fractionally. "I had suggested to him that we use you. He was adamant we would not."

"And yet you did it anyway!" Mary stood up straight and her body stilled. John could have told Mycroft she was more deadly now than she had been a moment ago, with the admission of those words. Mycroft seemed to sense it as well. John heard two more people enter the room behind him and glanced back. Security had finally materialized. Mary paid no attention.

"As I said. You are the best. I needed the best to ensure my brother's closest friend would not come to harm. I did it for Sherlock."

Mary stared at Mycroft and shook her head. "No, that's not all of it. There's more. You wouldn't have brought me here simply because I am the 'best'. You wanted something else out of this. You are going to tell me everything _right now_ or I walk out of here." She was still managing to reign in a large part of her fury, but John could see danger hadn't passed. He inched closer. She turned to him swiftly.

"Stay out of this John. I don't want to hurt you." It seemed almost ridiculous coming from this petite woman, but he had seen what she could do and he felt that that was only the surface of what she was capable of.

Mycroft looked at Mary for a minute, nodded sharply and then abruptly stood up and turned his back to gaze out of the window behind him. He clasped his hands behind his back.

"I did not lie to you, Mary. I did suggest you come to London and I did it because of your expertise. Sherlock insisted I do not ask you, but I sent the note anyway, thinking I could always change my mind and I believe I covered that in the letter. When Sherlock died I fully intended to send you another letter telling you your services were not required. However," he paused and John could hear the weariness in his voice, the weariness of a man forced to make decisions that were not always beneficial for individuals. Mycroft turned and faced Mary and John could see regret in his face, "however, information reached me in regards to Moriarty's second in command. When I discovered who this person was, I had to make a difficult decision. I sent the information asking you to come, because I knew you would be the one person who would intrigue him into showing himself and bring him to London, where hopefully, I could have him captured or eliminated. Mary, I do deeply regret what pain this may cause you, but I felt it was for the greater good."

John was watching Mary's face as they both listened to Mycroft. He really had no clue as to what was going on, but as he watched her face, he realized Mary did. She went from the anger, to confusion, to shock and horror.

"No!" she said her voice soft at first. "No! You fucking bastard!" Her voice rose at each word until she was shouting at him. "How could you? Do you remember what he did to me? You arrogant, twisted, son of a bitch!" She flung the last words at him. Mycroft didn't flinch. John decided he needed to find out what was going on, but he didn't want to ask Mycroft. The urge to punch him was growing stronger. He turned to Mary and said as gently as he could.

"Who is it Mary?" He reached out to touch her, trying to comfort her. She flinched, but let him put his arm around her shoulder. She swallowed, her eyes blinking and her shaking increasing. John was afraid she was going into shock. She swallowed again.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran," she said. And then she abruptly shook off John's arm and ran out of the room. John wanted to go after her, but he needed to find out what the hell was going on first. He glanced at one of the security guards and jerked his head in an obvious command to follow her. The man hesitated, until Mycroft spoke.

"Please follow Ms. Morstan, Michael. Don't get close to her. Just find out where she is headed and see that she comes to no further harm." He turned to the other man. "You may leave us Paul." Paul left, closing the door behind him. Mycroft sat down again. John thought Mycroft had grown older looking in the last few minutes. He decided he really didn't care.

"You are going to tell me what the hell that was all about. And if you leave anything out, so help me, Mycroft…" John let the threat hang in the air.

Mycroft looked at John and nodded.

"I am aware of the conversation you two had earlier this morning."

_Of course you are. Mary was right. You are twisted. _John thought.

"I know that she mentioned the unfortunate incident from five years previous and I know she spoke of a certain Col. Moran as being the head of that whole sordid affair. What she did not tell you is that Mary orders to assassinate me came directly from Moran himself. When she failed to carry out those orders and when she in turn helped to organize Moran's downfall, he took it rather personally." John was thinking that that must be the world's biggest understatement. "Before we were able to set up our operation against him, Moran captured Mary." He paused and he looked levelly at John.

"He had her for three days before Sherlock found her. His appetite for revenge was so great that even knowing we were closing in on him he took the time to punish her for what he saw as a betrayal. Sherlock arrived just in time. Moran escaped. Mary does not know that I have been safeguarding her all these years in order to prevent Moran from finding her. I am certain he knew approximately where she was. He was bidding his time."

John could now appreciate the level of rage Mary felt for Mycroft. What he heard sickened him. He stood closer to Mycroft.

"You knew all of this and yet you still used her as, what, bait for that psycho? You are a twisted son of a bitch, aren't you?"

"John I do not excuse my actions. I do what is best for all. Moran must be stopped. This seemed expedient. If all had gone well, she would have never known."

John looked even more dangerous. "Well it didn't go well, did it?"

"John I think your feelings for Ms. Morstan may be clouding your judgement in regards to…" he didn't finish because John finally did punch him, in the eye.

"Piss off, Mycroft," he said as he stormed out of the room after Mary.

oOo

As John left, slamming the door to Mycroft's office behind him, another door to the right opened and someone came out, crossed the floor to open a hidden mini fridge and proceeded to wrap some ice in a towel. They crossed back to Mycroft and handed the ice to him.

"That went better than I expected," said Mycroft, wincing as he placed the ice on his eye.

"Brother you are a dangerous fool. I specifically told you to leave Mary out of this and yet you did it anyway," Sherlock frowned angrily at his older brother.

"What would you have me do, Sherlock? It was use her or use John."

Sherlock's eyes glittered dangerously at Mycroft. "You used both"

"Sherlock," Mycroft warned.

"When this is over I will decide if I forgive you for this presumption," Sherlock said. "You were not there when I found her," And with that, Sherlock swept out of the room in the direction he had come from.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Yay! Sherlock finally makes a real appearance. **

**Allusions to torture **

**Special shout out to hjohn302 who keeps posting such encouraging reviews!**

Chapter 8 – 10 minutes later

Michael directed John to Mary's room. She had fled from Mycroft's office straight back there. He tentatively knocked on the door and called her name. He knew that she probably was in distress and was he afraid of the possibilities of flashbacks. John knew all about flashbacks. His could and had been induced by small things. Mary had been 3 days with a man who as far as John was concerned sounded more like a rabid animal. If she was hiding somewhere reliving events from 5 years ago he needed to approach her with caution and care. He would have done that anyway.

"Mary?" he called out again, quietly.

He heard a noise coming from the bathroom. It sounded like his name.

He found her on the floor next to the toilet, her knees up, her arms around them and her head down. She was rocking slightly back and forth.

"I'm sorry," he heard her mumble into her knees. "I was just sick."

John spoke reassuringly. "I'm not surprised. Don't worry. I'm a doctor. I've seen all kinds of sick." She just nodded her head and didn't reply. "May I join you?" he asked keeping his voice gentle.

She nodded again, refusing to look at him. He lowered himself slowly to the floor, leaning against the sink. He was as far from her as the bathroom allowed. He didn't want to crowd her or accidently touch her.

He sat with his knees up and didn't say anything for about 10 minutes.

"If I wet a cloth and pass it to you, would you take it? It might make you feel better to wipe you face."

There was a hesitation and again she nodded.

He slowly stood up, found a flannel, wet it and crouched down closer to her.

"Mary?" he said softly, holding out the cloth.

Mary glanced up at John and he struggled to keep his face neutral. In her eyes he could see seven kinds of hell. Gone was the confident, dangerous woman from last night and this morning. Also no longer present was the righteously angry woman who had stared down Mycroft Holmes. In it's place there was a frightened and hurt girl. His heart broke a little to see it. She must have read some of that in his face.

"I'm fine, John," her voice sounding anything but.

John just looked at her and then snorted.

"No your not. I know I'm not fine after everything we discussed in there and I'm the king of 'I'm fine', so, no you are not fine."

She looked at him and nodded again and took the cloth from him and wiped her face. She placed it on the floor. He was pleased that she didn't lower her head again, but looked at him. He smiled at her. She turned her head and looked at the wall. Another 10 minutes passed.

"What happened after I left?" she asked in a quiet voice.

He knew she wouldn't let him lie to her so he said gently. "Mycroft told me that you were with Moran for 3 days." She flinched a little at Moran's name and John regretted he'd only hit Mycroft once. "Then he said some things I didn't like and I punched him in the eye."

She turned and looked back at John. "You punched him? Why?"

"Well he's had it coming for a while now and that was the last straw." He refrained from telling her what exactly it was that Mycroft had started to say. She nodded her head and continued to rock.

John was a very patient man. He was fully prepared to wait for her forever, but he'd had a rough night and morning and his shoulder, face and head were complaining. The cold floor in the bathroom was not helping.

"If I go and close the bedroom door and sit on a chair will you come out and sit on the bed? It would be more comfortable. Or I can go and wait out in the hall."

She shook her head violently. He wasn't sure which part she was saying no to.

"Please stay," she whispered. "I'll come out."

"Do you want the door closed?"

She nodded.

He got up trying not to groan and padded out to close the door. Michael was standing outside and looked at him. John hesitated and said. "She will be ok, but she in shock and will need some fluids. I need you send for some cold water and some tea. Make sure there's sugar on the tray. Then when it comes I want you to place it on the floor outside the door, knock and keep out of sight. Do you understand?"

Michael nodded. John closed the door.

He then turned and went to the bathroom and stood at the door. She looked at him and slowly stood up. He backed into the room to give her space and sat down in a chair similar to the one Mary had sat in this morning, ages ago it felt like but it had only been an hour.

"It's ok," he said softly. "Come and sit."

She climbed on the bed, lying down on her side, but facing him. She closed her eyes and sighed.

"Mary, I'm going to cover you with a blanket. You are probably in shock. Is that ok?"

She nodded again. He went to the other side of the bed and rolled the duvet over her. He went back to the chair and sat down.

There was a knock at the door and Mary jumped, turning her head to the door.

"It's ok. I just ordered up some tea and water. You look like you could use it." She didn't say anything, but put her head back down. John went to the door, waited a bit and then opened it. The tray was there with tea, two cups, milk, sugar, two glasses of water with ice and a plate of chocolate digestives. He wondered briefly if the biscuits were Mycroft's idea of a piece offering, but then dismissed it. He brought the tea tray in and set it on the bedside table.

"Milk?" he asked.

"No just sugar, please." She murmured.

John added extra sugar to one of the cups and poured tea for them both. He brought one cup and a glass of water around to Mary's side of the bed. She looked up at him and sat up, pulling the pillow up behind her to lean on. He handed her the glass first.

"Water first," he said.

She took the glass and drank it almost greedily and put it down on the tray. He handed her the tea. She grimaced at the sweet taste, but didn't say anything. John had purposely put in lots. She needed it.

"Biscuit?"

She looked confused for a moment and her face cleared. "Cookie. No thanks. Maybe later."

John got his glass and cup and sat back in his chair. He sipped his tea. And waited. Mary set the cup down and lay back on the bed. John settled his cup on his knee and closed his eyes for only a minute. He must have doze off. When he woke up, Mary appeared to be sleeping. He got use to use the bathroom. While in there he took a look at his face. He peeled of the gauze and threw it away. He looked at the stitches underneath. There were three. He vaguely remembered a man whom he presumed was Mycroft's doctor stitching him up last night. He'd done a neat job. There was some swelling, but not a lot. His cheek was turning a lovely shade of purple.

He went back and started to sit back in the chair when Mary spoke.

"John, don't be stupid. Lie down on the bed. Your exhausted." Mary said all of this with out opening her eyes. He hesitated.

"I don't want to bother you."

"I'm not going to bite." She said with faint sarcasm.

He remembered the remark from earlier. He was too tired to argue, so he nodded, even though she couldn't see and walked around to the other side of the bed. And lay down with his back to her and not touching.

"I'll apologize in advance just in case I have nightmares. I don't usually get violent in my sleep, but I might hit you," she murmured.

"Let's make a deal," said John. "If we both have nightmares, we'll call it even."

Mary chuckled softly and they both drifted off to sleep.

oOo

Sherlock lay on the couch in the room next to Mycroft's office. It wasn't as comfortable as his couch at Baker Street. That couch was worn and sprung in all the right places, but it would do. It was far better than some of the places he'd been recently.

Sherlock interrupted plans to take on a narcotics ring belonging to Moriarty's organization in order to come back to London because he had heard Moran was here. He'd arrived a few weeks ago. Moran was the one person he was desperate to find. He had been the assassin who had had orders to shoot John if Sherlock hadn't jumped. He had a personal grudge against Moran. No one threatened to kill his friends. He hadn't forgotten what Moran had done to Mary all those years ago. It still made him exceptionally angry that that man had escaped. But if he had gone after him then Mary would have died. There had been no other option. Mycroft had lost Moran's trail, despite all of his best efforts and intensive searches.

Mycroft then discovered that Moran had connected with Moriarty. In light of that it made sense that they had been unable to track Moran. Only Moriarty had the resources to make someone disappear completely. Two dangerous psychopaths, almost perfectly suited to each other, the dark mirror images of him and John. It almost made one believe that letting Moran escape the first time had resulted in John's life being put in danger. As if it were fated. This was utter nonsense of course. Even though Sherlock didn't believe that he was responsible for causing all of these situations to align, as if by the stars, he was taking it very personally.

He was going to have to get rid of Moan. That would save John and that would also save Mary.

He needed to plan his next move. Mycroft had overstepped his bounds and was making life difficult for Sherlock's friends. This utter nonsense of using Mary as bait, especially after Sherlock had put his foot down. He had surmised that bringing her in would make her a liability if she became aware of what she had been up against. And he had been proven right given the reaction he had heard through the door. He'd almost forgotten how daunting she could be when aroused to anger. She was usually more calm and controlled. He did give her leeway for her feelings in this instance. It was understandable that she would feel some emotional trauma after what had been done to her.

He would have to leave of course and track Moran down and personally punish him for all the difficulty he was causing. Eliminating him would remove his friends from that particular danger. He would go alone in order to protect them. After all that is why he had faked his suicide in the first place. It was perfectly logical. He would leave at once.

Sherlock moved to sit up, when he was stilled by a revolutionary line of thought.

Sherlock had gone after Mary without backup. That resulted in Moran escaping. He had gone to the Pool without informing John. That had resulted in John being captured and used as a hostage. He had jumped off the roof at St. Bart's in order to protect his friends, but what might the repercussions be of continually doing things alone. Without help. What if 'going it alone' caused further harm? He irritably dismissed the idea. It made it difficult to think.

No he would leave at once, alone. It was better that way.

He paused again. And he finally saw the pattern of his life. He had been skirting the edges of it. If he went in to take on Moran without help, there would be consequences that even he could not see.

Sherlock lay back again.

There really was only one possible course of action.

He needed John.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: OK. This one's a bit angsty. There is talk of torture, but it is not graphic. However if this makes you upset I have posted the same chapter with fewer details about Mary's ordeal. So skip this one and head on over to Chapter 9b. I don't want to cause difficulties for anyone**. **And I want you to enjoy the writing not be upset by it. Thanks to Zacha for this idea of duplicate chapters. She very cleverly uses it in her writing.**

Chapter 9 – several hours later

He had always had vivid, colourful dreams, even before the war, but they were ordinary and sometimes even boring dreams. He always remembered them with perfect clarity, even the stupid ones like the dream he'd once had about a road trip with his mates and the conversation in the car during the dream had been about neckties. In exquisite, boring detail. Then came the war and while not all of his dreams of Afghanistan were horrible, gut wrenching affairs that caused him to wake up sweating, crying and sometimes screaming, most of them were. They were also excruciatingly detailed and vivid and they were anything but ordinary. He'd never had flying dreams before or dreams about visiting weird and wonderful places. It's not that he didn't have an imagination. It had just never shown up during sleep. The war and the exotic local had pried open his imagination and painted his dreams with it. The slumber he had fallen into after lying on the bed beside Mary brought him straight to Afghanistan, but it was the Afghanistan of _A Thousand and One Nights._

_Walking through the market in a small village in Afghanistan. He was checking the market stalls for interesting items. One's he could send back home to friends and maybe a peace offering to Harry. From behind the stalls strange and wonderful creatures came up to him offering him rare items, jewels and magic lamps, rugs that flew and plump and delicious looking fruit that didn't exist in nature. All the people in the dream had green or purple or blue or red skin. It was their eyes that caught and held his attention. Sharp, piercing eyes that glimmered silver or blue or green depending on the light. Eyes that took one look at him and knew him right down to his soul. And instead of haggling or forcing their wares on him, which is what usually happened in a market stall anywhere in the world, the strange people kept saying. 'He's not here. Keep looking. He's not here, but he's nearby.' And Mary was ahead of him and she was beckoning. 'This way, John. Do keep up.' And she ran ahead and around a corner and down an alley and suddenly it was night and he was back in the alley surrounded by the five Uglies, but the alley was still in Afghanistan and the stars were bright and close and gorgeous, the stars of the desert, not the stars of a city. 'Beautiful isn't it?' said a deep baritone voice, smooth like chocolate. He turned and Sherlock was standing there pointing a gun at a fleeing shape. He looked around and four bodies were on the ground, but the fifth was running and Sherlock lined up his sight along the gun and shot the last Ugly. Another voice, higher, feminine called out "No!" in anguish._

John woke up with a start, still trapped in the remnants of the dream. It took him a minute to orient himself. He was lying on his back staring at the ceiling. The light coming in the bedroom window indicated that he'd slept for a few hours. He was in Mary's room and he was about to sit up when he heard it again. The last part of the dream, the voice crying **No** hadn't been part of his dream. Mary was tossing on the bed beside him in the grips of a nightmare. Her voice was pleading and there were tears running down her face. John sat up abruptly and reached out cautiously toward her, not wanting to touch her. That could send the whole situation spirally out of control. If he woke her up too quickly one of them might get hurt, if she hit him in her confusion. He leaned over and whispered near her ear:

"It's ok. You're safe. It's only a dream. Shhh. You're all right."

He repeated this reassurance several times until her eyes finally snapped open. He could tell her heart was racing and she was close to hyperventilating. Her eyes flickered rapidly back and forth across the ceiling and awareness slowly seeped into them. She sat up and realizing she had been crying, furiously scrubbed at her eyes trying to erase the signs of tears. She stifled a sob. John reached out to her and laid a tentative hand on her shoulder. She stiffened slightly, but then relaxed. He took this as a cue that he could put his arm around her shoulder and comfort her. She leaned into his embrace and stifled another sob.

"No you don't," John said firmly and kindly. "You're going to let yourself have a good cry."

Mary shuddered slightly and then the kindness and warmth of John's tone reached through the wall she always kept up around herself and she started sobbing in earnest. John wrapped both arms around her and drew her close, tucking her head under his chin. He could feel his t-shirt getting soaked, but it didn't matter. He slowly rocked her back and forth and stroked her back. She clutched at his shirt, kneading her fingers in and out of the material. Gradually her tears subsided and she started taking the deep shuddering breaths of someone who has cried their heart out and can't cry any longer. John closed his eyes and continued to rock her.

After a few minutes Mary gradually released John's shirt and carefully pushed herself far enough away from John so she could look into his kind, warm eyes. He smiled at her and there was a moment when they just looked at each other and then Mary threw her arms around his neck and wrapped her fingers in his hair and pulled him close and John let her. Their lips met and a spark kindled in him and a rush of desire flooded through him. It had been a long time and he had been so lonely and sad and he was only human. He knew he was falling fast and hard for this fascinating and dangerous woman.

_Dangerous_, there was that word again.

_Danger_

He had always felt the rush with danger. Was addicted to it.

_And I said dangerous and here you are._

This was dangerous. He couldn't do this. Not right now. This wasn't right and it wasn't fair, to Mary or himself.

If there was something between them, he didn't want it to start like this. Not for either of them. He had never minded the idea of sex for comfort. There had been other nights when there had been a need so powerful and mortality had been close at hand that you slept with someone in order to feel alive again. But not with this. Mary was drowning in feelings she had probably been suppressing for years and he didn't want to regret this something between them if she realized it wasn't what she really wanted. He could not and would not take advantage of her this way.

His libido was mentally kicking him and whining quietly at the back of his brain. He sighed, mentally and told his libido to shut it. He then proceeded to ever so gently untangle himself from Mary's lips, her lovely, lovely warm lips, which were currently blazing a trail of kisses down his neck.

He found her ear and very quietly whisper in it. "We can't." He then very gentle pushed her away from him. She stiffened in rejection and he looked into her eyes and his resolve almost broke. He gripped both of her shoulders gently and said, "It's not that I don't want to. I want you in the worst possible way, but not like this. I think I might want you forever and I'm afraid." He cleared his throat and continued. "I'm afraid you'll regret it if we do this right now under these circumstances. We are both caught up in these emotions and I'd rather we waited to see if there was something more than sex," he blushed slightly at his bluntness.

Mary looked at him, then closed her eyes and nodded. Her face cleared and she moved her arms from his neck and wrapped them around his waist and snuggled into his shoulder. He lay back with her lying on him and he wrapped one arm around her waist, lightly stroking her back and his other hand was brushing her hair. They lay like that for a few minutes.

"Do you want to talk about it," he asked hesitantly. She didn't say anything for a minute.

"I don't actually remember much about what happened," and John knew she wasn't talking about the dream. "At least I don't have much of a visual memory." She paused and swallowed.

She began to tell him haltingly and cautiously about her 3 days with Moran. She'd been captured while tracking down the location of where he was hiding. He'd blindfolded her from the start, taunting her the first day with what he'd wanted to do to her. He'd promised it would be painful and because she was so proficient with knives, he'd told her that was what he would use. John kept up a steady pace while stoking her back. He could tell from the way she spoke that she hadn't told many people about her experience. He felt a growing, almost blinding hatred towards Moran, but he kept that feeling from his hands. From what Mary told him, Moran had derived a lot of pleasure from torturing her and he remembered what Mycroft had said. He'd delayed his escape in order to do this. John's stomach clenched with nausea as she described haltingly how Moran had cut her, one cut at a time and never in the same place. Because she'd been blindfolded she could never tell where he was going to attack her next. She said he'd avoided her arms and legs for the most part and was saving her face for last. Sherlock had arrived before then and he'd found her, suffering from major blood loss and dangerously in shock. He'd been so gentle with her, untying her and taking off the blindfold.

"I really don't remember a lot, but I'll never forget the look in his eyes when he saw…" she paused and swallowed again.

John remembered Sherlock's reaction to the CIA's mistreatment of Mrs. Hudson and could imagine the fury that must have been in his eyes. Women might not be Sherlock's 'area', but he had usually been gentle with women who had been physically attacked, even on their cases and for a woman he knew he was murderous.

Mary seemed to relax further as she finished. John felt that despite how painful it must have been to talk about, it had ultimately been healthier for her, not letting it stay buried. He was thinking it might bring a fresh round of nightmares. He continued stroking her back.

They lay like that for a moment when she pulled away from him and sat up. She was wearing a slightly baggy shirt and slowly pulled down one shoulder of it, enough to uncover a small area.

John took a deep shuddering breath as he saw the network of fine, white scars over her back. They were in the shape of stars, like the kind a child draws in a picture. Each one consisted of six lines, the ones John could see were no larger than three or four centimetres, but there were lots of them and this was only one part of her back.

John looked at her with anguish in his eyes.

"All over your back," he could barely choke it out. She nodded, biting her lip and a faint blush crept up her skin. He realized she was humiliated and embarrassed.

He gently reached over and lifted her shirt back in place and pulled her back into his arms. John had seen the victims of torture during the war, but not this methodical and cold and sick. He could feel tears in his eyes.

"You did nothing wrong," he whispered. Mary started crying again. But it was a calmer type of crying not quite the heart breaking anguish of before. After a few minutes he got up and refilled her glass of water from the tap in the bathroom. He brought it back to her and she drank it down with a small smile of thanks. He took the glass from her, put it down and climbed back into bed with her. He wondered if a change of subject would help or nor. He decided to ask her a question that had been bouncing around at the back of his head ever since this morning.

'How on earth, did you ever start down the road to becoming an assassin?"

She stilled a moment and he wondered if he had blundered bringing up the subject when suddenly he could feel her laughing quietly.

"I know. It's ridiculous, right? I'm, like, what? 120 centimetres? I weigh about 47, 48 kilograms. But that's why they recruited me. Thought I looked nonthreatening and could get close to targets, because who would believe someone so small could be so deadly. I am deadly, you know," she glanced up at John and he was pleased to see a small gleam had returned to her eyes.

"Oh, yes. I believe you," he chuckled down at her. "I saw you in the alley." He was beginning to wonder where his moral compass had gone in all this. He normally wouldn't have been too pleased that someone he knew could calmly speak of killing people, but it wasn't as if she had randomly done any of that. She was more like a soldier, at least in the eyes of a secret intelligence group. And he couldn't say that he hadn't done similar things during the war. He really wasn't all that chuffed about the loss of the Uglies in the alley. It was him or them as far as he was concerned and apparently he'd killed one and she had killed four of them to save him. He thought about that for a moment. Had she? Killed four? He remembered three, but what about the fourth, the one who had grabbed him at the end and then run off.

"Mary," he asked cautiously. "In the alley? How many of those blokes did you, you know, kill?"

She looked at him quizzically. "Three. The fourth one ran away and someone else shot him as he exited the alley" She frowned, remembering. "I didn't really think about it at the time. I was more concerned with you being hurt and all. Why?"

And John remembered his dream. It was all there. He looked at her with rising excitement. He was so sure this time.

"Because I think I know who else was there. In the alley. I think I know who shot the fourth.

**A/N: Hope that wasn't too much.**

**Just a side note John's dream about the car ride and the discussion about ties is actually my husband's. He really does have the most detailed and boring dreams about everyday things. I am jealous, because I have colourful and fascinating dreams, but cannot remember a single thing I dream. That's what I get for making fun of him.**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: OK. So this is the same chapter with some of the more disturbing parts taken out. I hope this isn't too confusing. Thanks to Zacha for this idea of duplicate chapters. She very cleverly uses it in her writing.**

Chapter 9 – several hours later

He had always had vivid, colourful dreams, even before the war, but they were ordinary and sometimes even boring dreams. He always remembered them with perfect clarity, even the stupid ones like the dream he'd once had about a road trip with his mates and the conversation in the car during the dream had been about neckties. In exquisite, boring detail. Then came the war and while not all of his dreams of Afghanistan were horrible, gut wrenching affairs that caused him to wake up sweating, crying and sometimes screaming, most of them were. They were also excruciatingly detailed and vivid and they were anything but ordinary. He'd never had flying dreams before or dreams about visiting weird and wonderful places. It's not that he didn't have an imagination. It had just never shown up during sleep. The war and the exotic local had pried open his imagination and painted his dreams with it. The slumber he had fallen into after lying on the bed beside Mary brought him straight to Afghanistan, but it was the Afghanistan of _A Thousand and One Nights._

_Walking through the market in a small village in Afghanistan. He was checking the market stalls for interesting items. One's he could send back home to friends and maybe a peace offering to Harry. From behind the stalls strange and wonderful creatures came up to him offering him rare items, jewels and magic lamps, rugs that flew and plump and delicious looking fruit that didn't exist in nature. All the people in the dream had green or purple or blue or red skin. It was their eyes that caught and held his attention. Sharp, piercing eyes that glimmered silver or blue or green depending on the light. Eyes that took one look at him and knew him right down to his soul. And instead of haggling or forcing their wares on him, which is what usually happened in a market stall anywhere in the world, the strange people kept saying. 'He's not here. Keep looking. He's not here, but he's nearby.' And Mary was ahead of him and she was beckoning. 'This way, John. Do keep up.' And she ran ahead and around a corner and down an alley and suddenly it was night and he was back in the alley surrounded by the five Uglies, but the alley was still in Afghanistan and the stars were bright and close and gorgeous, the stars of the desert, not the stars of a city. 'Beautiful isn't it?' said a deep baritone voice, smooth like chocolate. He turned and Sherlock was standing there pointing a gun at a fleeing shape. He looked around and four bodies were on the ground, but the fifth was running and Sherlock lined up his sight along the gun and shot the last Ugly. Another voice, higher, feminine called out "No!" in anguish._

John woke up with a start, still trapped in the remnants of the dream. It took him a minute to orient himself. He was lying on his back staring at the ceiling. The light coming in the bedroom window indicated that he'd slept for a few hours. He was in Mary's room and he was about to sit up when he heard it again. The last part of the dream, the voice crying **No** hadn't been part of his dream. Mary was tossing on the bed beside him in the grips of a nightmare. Her voice was pleading and there were tears running down her face. John sat up abruptly and reached out cautiously toward her, not wanting to touch her. That could send the whole situation spirally out of control. If he woke her up too quickly one of them might get hurt, if she hit him in her confusion. He leaned over and whispered near her ear:

"It's ok. You're safe. It's only a dream. Shhh. You're all right."

He repeated this reassurance several times until her eyes finally snapped open. He could tell her heart was racing and she was close to hyperventilating. Her eyes flickered rapidly back and forth across the ceiling and awareness slowly seeped into them. She sat up and realizing she had been crying, furiously scrubbed at her eyes trying to erase the signs of tears. She stifled a sob. John reached out to her and laid a tentative hand on her shoulder. She stiffened slightly, but then relaxed. He took this as a cue that he could put his arm around her shoulder and comfort her. She leaned into his embrace and stifled another sob.

"No you don't," John said firmly and kindly. "You're going to let yourself have a good cry."

Mary shuddered slightly and then the kindness and warmth of John's tone reached through the wall she always kept up around herself and she started sobbing in earnest. John wrapped both arms around her and drew her close, tucking her head under his chin. He could feel his t-shirt getting soaked, but it didn't matter. He slowly rocked her back and forth and stroked her back. She clutched at his shirt, kneading her fingers in and out of the material. Gradually her tears subsided and she started taking the deep shuddering breaths of someone who has cried their heart out and can't cry any longer. John closed his eyes and continued to rock her.

After a few minutes Mary gradually released John's shirt and carefully pushed herself far enough away from John so she could look into his kind, warm eyes. He smiled at her and there was a moment when they just looked at each other and then Mary threw her arms around his neck and wrapped her fingers in his hair and pulled him close and John let her. Their lips met and a spark kindled in him and a rush of desire flooded through him. It had been a long time and he had been so lonely and sad and he was only human. He knew he was falling fast and hard for this fascinating and dangerous woman.

_Dangerous_, there was that word again.

_Danger_

He had always felt the rush with danger. Was addicted to it.

_And I said dangerous and here you are._

This was dangerous. He couldn't do this. Not right now. This wasn't right and it wasn't fair, to Mary or himself.

If there was something between them, he didn't want it to start like this. Not for either of them. He had never minded the idea of sex for comfort. There had been other nights when there had been a need so powerful and mortality had been close at hand that you slept with someone in order to feel alive again. But not with this. Mary was drowning in feelings she had probably been suppressing for years and he didn't want to regret this something between them if she realized it wasn't what she really wanted. He could not and would not take advantage of her this way.

His libido was mentally kicking him and whining quietly at the back of his brain. He sighed, mentally and told his libido to shut it. He then proceeded to ever so gently untangle himself from Mary's lips, her lovely, lovely warm lips, which were currently blazing a trail of kisses down his neck.

He found her ear and very quietly whisper in it. "We can't." He then very gentle pushed her away from him. She stiffened in rejection and he looked into her eyes and his resolve almost broke. He gripped both of her shoulders gently and said, "It's not that I don't want to. I want you in the worst possible way, but not like this. I think I might want you forever and I'm afraid." He cleared his throat and continued. "I'm afraid you'll regret it if we do this right now under these circumstances. We are both caught up in these emotions and I'd rather we waited to see if there was something more than sex," he blushed slightly at his bluntness.

Mary looked at him, then closed her eyes and nodded. Her face cleared and she moved her arms from his neck and wrapped them around his waist and snuggled into his shoulder. He lay back with her lying on him and he wrapped one arm around her waist, lightly stroking her back and his other hand was brushing her hair. They lay like that for a few minutes.

"Do you want to talk about it," he asked hesitantly. She didn't say anything for a minute.

"I don't actually remember much about what happened," and John knew she wasn't talking about the dream. "At least I don't have much of a visual memory." She paused and swallowed.

She began to tell him haltingly and cautiously about her 3 days with Moran. She'd been captured while tracking down the location of where he was hiding. He'd blindfolded her from the start, taunting her the first day with what he'd wanted to do to her. John kept up a steady pace while stoking her back. He could tell from the way she spoke that she hadn't told many people about her experience. He felt a growing, almost blinding hatred towards Moran, but he kept that feeling from his hands. Sherlock had arrived before the end and he'd found her, suffering from major blood loss and dangerously in shock. He'd been so gentle with her, untying her and taking off the blindfold.

"I really don't remember a lot, but I'll never forget the look in his eyes when he saw…" she paused and swallowed again.

John remembered Sherlock's reaction to the CIA's mistreatment of Mrs. Hudson and could imagine the fury that must have been in his eyes. Women might not be Sherlock's 'area', but he had usually been gentle with women who had been physically attacked, even on their cases and for a woman he knew he was murderous.

Mary seemed to relax further as she finished. John felt that despite how painful it must have been to talk about, it had ultimately been healthier for her, not letting it stay buried. He was thinking it might bring a fresh round of nightmares. He continued stroking her back.

They lay like that for a moment when she said, "I have physical scars as well as emotional ones."

John looked at the pain in her eyes. He realized she was humiliated and embarrassed.

"Me too," he said simply.

"All over your back," he could barely choke it out. She nodded, biting her lip and a faint blush crept up her skin.

"You did nothing wrong," he whispered. Mary started crying again. But it was a calmer type of crying not quite the heart breaking anguish of before. After a few minutes he got up and refilled her glass of water from the tap in the bathroom. He brought it back to her and she drank it down with a small smile of thanks. He took the glass from her, put it down and climbed back into bed with her. He wondered if a change of subject would help or nor. He decided to ask her a question that had been bouncing around at the back of his head ever since this morning.

'How on earth, did you ever start down the road to becoming an assassin?"

She stilled a moment and he wondered if he had blundered bringing up the subject when suddenly he could feel her laughing quietly.

"I know. It's ridiculous, right? I'm, like, what? 120 centimetres? I weigh about 47, 48 kilograms. But that's why they recruited me. Thought I looked nonthreatening and could get close to targets, because who would believe someone so small could be so deadly. I am deadly, you know," she glanced up at John and he was pleased to see a small gleam had returned to her eyes.

"Oh, yes. I believe you," he chuckled down at her. "I saw you in the alley." He was beginning to wonder where his moral compass had gone in all this. He normally wouldn't have been too pleased that someone he knew could calmly speak of killing people, but it wasn't as if she had randomly done any of that. She was more like a soldier, at least in the eyes of a secret intelligence group. And he couldn't say that he hadn't done similar things during the war. He really wasn't all that chuffed about the loss of the Uglies in the alley. It was him or them as far as he was concerned and apparently he'd killed one and she had killed four of them to save him. He thought about that for a moment. Had she? Killed four? He remembered three, but what about the fourth, the one who had grabbed him at the end and then run off.

"Mary," he asked cautiously. "In the alley? How many of those blokes did you, you know, kill?"

She looked at him quizzically. "Three. The fourth one ran away and someone else shot him as he exited the alley" She frowned, remembering. "I didn't really think about it at the time. I was more concerned with you being hurt and all. Why?"

And John remembered his dream. It was all there. He looked at her with rising excitement. He was so sure this time.

"Because I think I know who else was there. In the alley. I think I know who shot the fourth.

**A/N: Hope that wasn't too much.**

**Just a side note John's dream about the car ride and the discussion about ties is actually my husband's. He really does have the most detailed and boring dreams about everyday things. I am jealous, because I have colourful and fascinating dreams, but cannot remember a single thing I dream. That's what I get for making fun of him.**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: *hand smacks forehead! Yeah, so I'm an idiot – 3 edits and I totally missed how off I was over Mary's height. It should have been 160 not 120. I guess I typed a 2 instead of a 6 and missed it!:P She's suppose to be around the 5'3 mark. I wanted her to be shorter than John but not that short! Apparently I failed the metric system. Disqualification as a Canadian.**

**Anyway…**

Chapter 10 – several hours earlier

Sherlock lay on the couch for a few minutes after his epiphany. He was coming to terms with the idea that he needed John's help. John. Simple, ordinary John, lover of knit wear, for god's sake. John who had shot the cabbie, John who had offered his life for Sherlock's at The Pool, John who had eventually forgiven him for the experiment in Baskerville's labs, John who had pleaded with him not to jump. Who would not believe he was a fake, even when Sherlock told him this in order to save his life from the sniper. John, who still visited Sherlock's grave once a week. Mycroft had informed him of the visits.

Sherlock got off the couch and went in to speak to Mycroft. He was still sitting at his desk, leaning back with ice on his eye.

"John has vastly improved your face. That eye is going to turn into such a lovely purple," Sherlock said dryly.

Mycroft sighed. "What is it you require from me Sherlock? I have been trying to locate the whereabouts of Col. Moran, but I am having no luck. Since his attack last night on John there has been nothing."

"You are quite certain it was Moran's people who attacked John?"

Mycroft smiled slightly at Sherlock, putting down the ice in order to look at his brother. "Quite. We have identified the dearly departed and they are all known associates of the colonel's."

Sherlock stood in thought. "From what I could hear of the conversation between the one man and Mary it sounded as if they had captured John in order to ask him questions. I surmise they were trying to locate Mary not myself. You did leak information to let Moran know Mary was in London? I am correct in this, am I not?" and he frowned at Mycroft.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock for a moment. "Yes, I am afraid you are correct. I wanted to flush him out and I knew he would be unable to resist her. I have already mentioned some of these facts, Sherlock."

"But not that you had deliberately invited him to come and play," Sherlock's eyes glittered dangerously again.

"That's a bit rich coming from you, or have you forgotten all about James Moriarty?" Mycroft very rarely showed his anger, but he had had enough for one day. He would not stand by and have his brother, his little brother, lecture him about such matters.

Sherlock just glared at Mycroft and then abruptly switched topics.

"I am going to speak to John."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock and frowned. "You are going to reveal yourself to John? Let him know you didn't die? Do you really think John will understand or forgive you? You really have no idea how much your 'death' affected him. On the surface he appears to be 'fine', but he assuredly is not."

Sherlock stood with his arms folded. "I believe I can make him understand about the whys." He hesitated as if having difficulty in admitting the next part. "I am uncertain as to whether he will forgive me. I can only hope that he will do so eventually."

"It may not be the fact that you faked your own death he will have difficulty with," said Mycroft. "Or the horrible way you did it in front of him, a man with PTSD, watching his dearest friend jump off a roof. It may be he won't forgive you for leaving him, for not telling him why in the first place. You do have a rather unfortunate habit of leaving him in the dark. He is so loyal to you and you do not reciprocate the sentiment. I do not believe breaking the news to John will be as easy as you believe."

Sherlock did not want Mycroft to know that this was his biggest worry. _But My has probably already guessed it and that is why he directed those remarks to me._

He chose to ignore Mycroft's summation. "John was not supposed to see me jump. He was supposed to be back at Baker Street, checking on Mrs. Hudson. Not watching me die!" Sherlock's voice rose a little on the end. He paused.

"It does not matter if John forgives me or not. I need his help," He swallowed his considerable pride and spoke the next words. "I can not go after Moran without him."

Mycroft slowly smiled, a genuinely pleased look on his face. "I am glad you are finally beginning to see some of the value of John Watson. Perhaps you are beginning to grow up little brother."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother and ignored that statement. "Where is he Mycroft?"

"I believe you will find him in Ms. Morstan's bedroom sleeping. Oh nothing like that," he said as he noticed Sherlock's eyebrows quirk. "Although it will only be a matter of time. They appear to be _very_ interested in one another. No, simply put she was distressed, he comforted her. Both are exhausted from emotional upheaval and John has the added burden of his physical injuries. They simply fell asleep. I suggest you have something to eat, get some rest and then go and give Dr. Watson the heart attack I'm sure he has always wanted." Mycroft smirked at his little brother.

"I require nothing to eat at this time. I will continue to think on how we will capture and kill Sebastian Moran. Please inform me when John awakens."

Sherlock went to lie back down on the couch.

oOo

several hours later

"So you are certain that Sherlock actually wrote that note and he, what followed you to the alley and shot Bad Guy #5?" Mary said a little dubiously.

"Yes, it makes sense don't you see? Who else could it have been? If it was one of Mycroft's men, they would have let you know, but they didn't. Anyone else would have come to help. No, it has to be Sherlock." John was up pacing the room.

"I need to go and speak to Mycroft. He must know Sherlock's alive and where he is. Even if he doesn't know exactly where, he'll help me find him I'm sure."

"But John, do you really think he would tell you? Don't you think if Sherlock has gone to all this trouble to, I don't know, to pretend to be dead, that Mycroft is simply going to tell you where he is? And why? Why did Sherlock do this? What was the reason?"

John stood there and looked at her. Anguish appeared on John's face. In his excitement of thinking about the possibility of Sherlock being alive, he had ignored the reason Sherlock had to do it in the first place. Why had he done it? If Sherlock had felt the need to fake his death why had he not told John?

John was feeling more apprehensive the longer he thought about this.

Mary felt horrible bringing this up, especially after looking at John's face.

John looked at her and then he straightened his shoulders and said, "I still need to talk to Mycroft."

Mary nodded pensively. "I'm going to stay here. I really don't want to see Mycroft right now."

"You'll be ok? If I go?"

"Yes. I'm going to clean up and find some lunch. I guess I need to figure out what I'm going to do next," she shrugged.

He gave her a quick smile and headed out the door. He nodded to Michael who was still stationed outside Mary's room.

He walked in the direction of Mycroft's office hoping to find him there. He was staring straight ahead, in a hurry, when he rounded the corner and right into Sherlock.

Sherlock had been on his way to see John. Mycroft had just informed him that John was awake and he couldn't wait any longer. He was feeling strangely nervous about speaking to him.

John backed up and stared. He felt his face grow pale. It was true. Sherlock was alive. Excitement and joy were now mixing with anger and confusion in his stomach, making a leaded weight.

"Sherlock?" John whispered. "It's true?"

"Hello John," Sherlock said.

Sherlock was beginning to understand what Mycroft had been talking about. This was not going to be easy. He could read all of the emotions flicking across John's face at a record pace: joy, despair, hurt, confusion, disappointment was there as well. John was disappointed in him. That one surprised him. But surely John would understand once he told him why he had done what he had done? He was now more certain that forgiveness was going to be a long time coming. He'd settle for some form of understanding.

While these thoughts were going through his head he was mentally cataloguing changes in John.

_Concussion from blow to the head experienced slight memory loss of immediate events which is slowly returning_

_Left shoulder injury aggravated caused by arms being raised behind back to the point of discomfort and pain_

_Three stitches to right cheek mild bruising and swelling I'd kill the man who did this except he's already dead_

_Lost weight half a stone not eating regular meals when he is eating he only consumes small portions maybe experiencing nausea possible headaches_

_Not sleeping nightmares no correction night terrors I caused this?_

_Depression not seeking professional advice brief thoughts of suicide because he thought I died?_

_Strong attraction to Mary, but holding back because both are experiencing emotional turmoil afraid she may be attracted to him because of support during crisis typical Watsonian honour behind this not justified Mary wouldn't be attracted to a rescuer or at least not just because of a rescue_

_Still wearing his pajamas which is highly unusual for this time of the day must be due to injury and emotional trauma and lack of time in which to change_

John meanwhile was drinking in the sight of Sherlock. He couldn't figure out as many things as Sherlock could about the average person, but as a doctor he could see that there were changes.

_Lost weight_

_Tired_

_Smoking again_

_No signs of drug use_

_What the hell is he wearing? jeans and a hoodie?_

All of these thoughts were catalogued in the first few seconds of the two men took to look at each other. Sherlock's 'Hello John' then registered in John's brain. His face went from pale to red in an instant.

"You turn up alive _two months_ after supposedly dying and all you can say is 'Hello John'?" God he hated it when his voice rose and when he was angry it sometimes came out squeaky. Especially when he was angry with Sherlock. "You insufferable, pompous, egotistical, pig-headed…"

"John"

"arrogant, puffed-up…"

"John!"

"overbearing, insufferable…"

"You have already used insufferable and really some of those words are just synonyms …"

"selfish **bastard**!" He roared the last word and was overwhelmed by the urge to deck his second Holmes of the day and could feel his hands clenching. "Do you... can you possibly…how hard… you know," and then John went from yelling at the top of his lungs at Sherlock to whispering with rage and that was possibly more frightening to Sherlock, if he was frightened, which he wasn't. "Do you have _any_ idea what I went through?"

"Yes John, I believe I have some idea that this has been extremely difficult for you."

John's rage left him as suddenly as it had come and all he could feel was the hurt. He just looked at Sherlock, panting from his draining anger.

"I thought I died that day, Sherlock. I thought I'd died because I'd failed you. Do you get it? I felt huge amounts of guilt, because how could you possible believe that I would think you were a fake. Me! After everything we've been through. How could you just…" and John could feel the sobs coming up and he tried to suppress the urge to cry. "And I asked you to not do it. I pleaded with you and I watched… I watched you…how could you just leave me? Like that?" and he abruptly turned his back and Sherlock could see his shoulders were shaking as he tried to control the sobs that were threating to overwhelm him.

Sherlock was uncertain what to do. He knew he had caused great distress for John. He was overwhelmed by the idea that anyone, that John could feel this much for him. No one had ever shown these kinds of emotions for Sherlock. He didn't understand them. But he did realize that he had to do something for John. John was slowly breaking again and he had to fix him. Like before. He wondered if a hug would be appropriate or if John would even allow him to initiate such a move. He was standing there, complete at a loss as to what to do. It was a strange sensation for him. Some part of that great brain of his clued in and before he even consciously knew what he was doing he stepped forward, spun John around, placed his long arms around him and awkwardly hugged him. John stiffened for an instant and then his arms went around Sherlock and they stood there while John wept.

They broke apart after a few minutes and Sherlock stood looking at his friend as John wiped his eyes. John was feeling slightly embarrassed at the depth of emotion he had displayed today, but he figured he'd get over it. It wasn't every day that your best friend came back to life.

"I missed you John," Sherlock said. "I wasn't prepared for that. It was…disconcerting."

John snorted and his voice still thick with tears, said "I missed you too, you git."

Sherlock turned to lead the way to Mycroft's office, when John grabbed his arm to stop him.

"Sherlock," he paused, and cleared his throat. "Sherlock, never again. Do you understand me? You are never to do that again or to go somewhere without telling. You will never leave me behind again. I couldn't…" He stopped, unable to continue.

Sherlock put his hand on John's and looked him in the eye. He was uncertain how he would react to what he had to say. "I can't promise. This is me. I don't think that way. But if you ask me questions about what I am doing I will be honest with you and I will do my utmost to include you in all of my future plans. I'll do my best."

John hesitated and the nodded. He knew that really for Sherlock that was a big step forward and he believed that Sherlock really would try.

oOo

Michael stood in the hall just a bit out of sight of the reunion, but not out of hearing. He was relieved of duty by someone from the security detail to stand outside Miss Morstan's room a few minutes after the detective and the doctor left.

He was finished for the day and left Mycroft Holmes' residence. He took a taxi to the other end of London and entered a run down and disreputable pub. At the back of the pub he met a man. He was tall, muscular, with an air of indifference to the world. A hard, cruel man.

"Well," said the man without preamble.

"You were right. Sherlock Holmes _is_ alive. He turned up at his brother's last night and is staying there. The doctor and the Morstan woman are there as well."

The man's eyes gleamed. "How very considerate of Mycroft to place all of the people I would most dearly love to see in the same location. And Mycroft there as well. How very nice."

He paused and looked at his undercover agent, his best lieutenant. "You know what to do next," and dismissed him.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Thanks again to everyone who's checking out my story – hope you're having fun! Special Hello to irishphoenix89 – thanks for following!**

**Some swearing, brief discussion of suicide**

Chapter 11 – a few minutes later

John and Sherlock made their way to Mycroft's office. Mycroft looked up as they entered. He offered them seats.

"I am delighted to see Dr. Watson refrained from hitting you, Sherlock. Although it would have been amusing for both of us to sport identical black eyes."

John looked hard at Mycroft. "The day's not over yet."

Sherlock winced a little at that comment. No, John still had a long way to go to forgiving him.

"As you can see Sherlock did not die after jumping off the roof," It was John's turn to wince. Everything was still too raw and new. "I am sure at a more convenient time he will be able to fill you in on all the little details as to how he managed to accomplish that. Suffice it to say that Sherlock is alive and you my dear Doctor Watson are in even more danger because of that."

John looked at Mycroft "How do you mean?"

"You haven't told him yet?" Mycroft looked at Sherlock, his fingers were steepled under his chin.

"We've hardly had time, Mycroft," he turned to John. "There was good reason why I did what I did. When I was up on the roof with Moriarty he gave me a choice. Either I jump or you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would die. He had assassins targeting all of you. He killed himself rather than give me the codes to deactivate the hit men. I had no choice, I would rather have died than see you die, John." Sherlock looked intently at him trying to convey some level of understanding so his friend would accept his choice. "I did not wish to see you hurt by my choosing to jump, or Martha or Greg, but I did not wish to see you dead either, knowing I could have prevented it. I had realized ahead of time that there was a possibility I might not survive my next confrontation with Moriarty so I made certain arrangements at St. Bart's to make it look like suicide."

John was stunned. He had suspected that something must have happened between Sherlock and Moriarty, but not this. The anger he had felt towards Sherlock lessened slightly. The anger towards Moriarty increased exponentially. Then the part about arrangements at St. Bart's registered.

"Molly helped, didn't she," It wasn't a question. John didn't really feel hurt that Molly had known all this time. Deep down he understood that Sherlock would need an expert in making it look like he had really died, someone to fill out the death certificate.

John rubbed his face. "Well that better explains how she always avoided looking me in the eye. She seemed guilty about something." He sighed and looked at Sherlock "It's ok. I'm beginning to understand what it must have been like for you and why you felt you had no choice. It doesn't mean I have to like it, however. And don't think I missed the part that you had realized ahead of time Moriarty was going to kill you. We'll renew that discussion about how you are going to tell me stuff in the future, later." And he frowned at Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded pleased that John was beginning to accept some of the whys, a little nervous about John's future discussion with him.

"So," John said. "Is that where you've been all this time? Hunting down hit men?"

Sherlock was pleased at how quickly John grasped the situation. He practically beamed at him.

"Very good, John. Not just hit men, but Moriarty's crime syndicate as well. I have managed to neutralize the threat against Mrs. Hudson. There is a mole in Scotland Yard in Lestrade's division, who has yet to be identified. We know who targeted you. And we know he's in the city."

He looked at John significantly, wondering if the doctor would make the connection.

John sat looking at Sherlock. He thought about that last remark and about all the business of the last day. He sat up straighter as he realized who Sherlock was talking about.

"Moran? That nutter who's after Mary?" he looked back at Mycroft. "Well, that makes a lot more sense. You knew he was after me and you knew he was interested in Mary, so instead of letting either of us know what was going on, you've let us both wander around the city hoping some assassin was going to take a shot at one of us!" John was back to being furious with Mycroft. He looked at Sherlock. He could tell Sherlock was as equally mad at Mycroft.

"You didn't know about all of this did you?" John said softly to Sherlock.

"I had just discovered a few days ago that Moran was in London. I was unaware of my brother's plans until this morning. I was not happy when I discovered he was trying to use you both as bait to lure Moran out of hiding." He turned back from John and looked hard at Mycroft. "I would have found Moran eventually. You did not have to endanger others to draw him out."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock. He was not going to apologize for this. "I did what I thought was best. I wanted Moran neutralized as much as you did. There was the chance that Moran would have targeted John before we were aware of his actions. We have had great difficulty tracking him. We did not even know until recently that he was even involved with Moriarty. He knows this city as well as you do and has many hiding places." He paused and glanced briefly at John, not an apology exactly, but almost a warning as to what he would say next. "It has been difficult for everyone, Sherlock, your having to go into hiding. John was in no more danger from Moran than he was from the depression he was experiencing due to your death. You would not necessarily know this, but I was concerned for John's state of mind after your 'suicide'. I was hoping that with Moran eliminated you might be able to come home sooner."

John stilled, flushed and was looking both dangerous and humiliated. He had not wanted Sherlock to know that he had come close a couple of times. He didn't believe he would have actually taken that last step, but there had been times when the sorrow, guilt and horror of what had happened had almost overwhelmed him. Sherlock was forcibly reminded of his deductions of a few minutes previous, when he had ascertained that John had been depressed and had possible thoughts of suicide. He was agitated at the thought that John could have taken steps to end his life. He was feeling extremely uncomfortable and subdued that he had caused him to even contemplate it. His decisions, once again, had had unforeseen consequences. He would have to ensure that nothing of this magnitude ever affected John in this way again. Sherlock also understood that John was an extremely private man and he would feel ashamed at the direction of this discussion.

"Mycroft," John said his voice quiet with suppressed anger. "You don't have the right. You don't have the right to discuss my personal business," his lips were pressed into a thin line. Sherlock noted that John's left hand was trembling slightly. "And you don't have the right to play with people's lives this way." Sherlock reached out and laid a hand on John's arm, in comfort not suppression. John glanced at him, understanding the gesture.

Mycroft looked at John and narrowed his eyes. He spoke in a very cold voice "I assure you, Dr. Watson, I do."

Sherlock felt the need prevent his brother and his best friend from shedding more blood. He looked at both of them.

"We need to discover Moran's whereabouts so that we can kill him," Sherlock said bluntly. John thought _No more tiptoeing around the issue. No more eliminate or neutralize. Nope. Straight up gonna kill the bastard. I think I'm fine with that._

Sherlock murmured to John "As am I." And John knew that Sherlock had read him just as easily as always had.

"So how? How do we find this maniac? Do we have any ideas as to where he is?" asked John.

"No," said Mycroft. "My best people are on it, but he seems to know where all the CCTV cameras are. We cannot track him that way."

Sherlock looked thoughtful "Homeless Network."

"Yes, a possibility," Mycroft nodded slightly.

John cleared his throat. "I think your best idea so far, as much as I don't like it, is bait. Use me. He wants me even if it's just to find out where Mary is."

Sherlock's eyes snapped at John. "No!"

"Sherlock…'

"I said **No**, John. We aren't using you that way. The man's a sharpshooter. If he decides he doesn't need you for information, he'll simply kill you, probably shoot you from afar."

John looked intently at Sherlock, "If we decide to do this, then _yes _Sherlock. I'm sure we will take every precaution. I'll wear a vest for Christ's sake, but I am going to be there and help in any way possible. You are not going to stop me." The voice of Captain John Watson was speaking now. Sherlock knew he wasn't going to be talked out of this and even though he was almost regretting his near promise to tell John everything, he would accept his friend's decision.

It didn't mean he had to like it.

He nodded sharply and they both looked back at Mycroft.

"Well, now that that's nicely settled, do we offer the same consideration to Ms. Morstan to take part in any of this?"

A resounding **NO!** came out of both John's and Sherlock's mouths at the same time.

"She's not to have anything to do with this," John said firmly as Sherlock overlapped with "Considering the nature of her relationship with Moran she would be a liability."

John looked at Sherlock "What, not worried about her safety?"

"Of course John. She is a friend and I don't wish to see her hurt anymore than she already has, but the most logically argument for keeping her out of this sordid affair is she will be a liability. "

"Who's going to tell her?"

Sherlock smirked at him. "Since you are the one who has elevated the relationship to something beyond mere friends I will allow you to do the honours."

John blanched at the thought of how that conversation was going to go, but he refrained from saying anything.

The phone rang on Mycroft's desk. He answered it

"Yes? Oh. Oh I see. Yes, I will speak with him. Did he say what it was in regards too?' There was a lengthy pause. "Oh yes. I see. Yes, give me five minutes and then send him in. Yes. Thank you," he hung up the phone and looked at John. "That was security. It seems that Detective Inspector Lestrade has come to speak with me to see if I know anything about your whereabouts. Having failed to show up at the surgery today, Dr. Sawyer contacted the Inspector. She was concerned because you had cancelled your dinner date with her last night and then when you failed to come into work she assumed the worst."

"Oh shit," said John.

"Indeed," said Mycroft "How do you wish to handle this?"

John thought furiously. He turned to Sherlock "Do you want to reveal yourself to Greg yet? You said you haven't found the agent at the Yard. Maybe Greg could do it for you. He's good at that sort of thing Sherlock. Better than you ever gave him credit for. I think he deserves to know what's going on. And you know what I think about you continuing this mad plan on your own. You have friends. Let us help."

Sherlock looked back at John. He thought for a moment. "You may be correct. I had originally gone into hiding to secure the safety of the three of you, but perhaps I need to spread the work as it were. I think it is time to let Lestrade know as well." He was also thinking about what Mycroft had said about wrapping this up more quickly. For John's sake.

"Learning are we?" said John, his turn to smirk.

Sherlock refrained from commenting.

"I am so glad we have gone to all the trouble of hiding your existence, Sherlock, only to confirm to everybody that you did not die," Mycroft said sarcastically.

Sherlock was prevented from replying by a knock at the door. The three men stood up and Mycroft called for the person to enter.

Lestrade strode in, took one look at Sherlock, paled and then spoke.

"Bloody, fucking hell. I should have known _you'd_ come back from the dead!"

oOo

Several hours later, after bringing Lestrade up to speed, they had a plan of action in place, using the Homeless Network and the four men present in the room as well as Mycroft's agents. Once they discovered where Moran was holed up, they knew what they were going to do. They decided that Greg would take some badly needed vacation time and work on his own time. They did not want to involve the Yard. They did not know the identity of the agent hidden there and they did not want the world at large to know of Sherlock's return. At least not yet.

None of them knew that all their plans would be for nothing.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: We're getting near to the end. I'm thinking about three or four more chapters to go, maybe! Things are about to get tense. And the story will move faster. At least that's the plan. Just saying…**

Chapter 12 – Later that day

After meeting with Sherlock, Mycroft and Lestrade, John finally, _finally_ got a chance to get showered and changed. His various aches and pains were helped by the hot water. He did have some concerns about the lingering after effects of the concussion, but he knew there should be a couple more days for him to recuperate before things started moving.

Before his shower he called Sarah and apologized profusely, stating he had had an emergency, a friend visiting from Canada had landed in some trouble and in all the confusion he had forgotten to call about work. John had never been very good at lying, but it was always easier to do it over the phone and he had mixed in a dash of truth. A bit of truth in a lie tends to make it stronger. Sarah was too relieved to be angry with him.

After he had showered and changed he had the happy task of telling Mary everything that had transpired. The shock and joy of Sherlock being alive, was replaced with down right anger at the thought that she was suppose to stay safe and secure while they were all out risking their lives. It was a full blown row and John's headache returned. Just when he thought he had finally convinced her and he started to leave her room he heard her shout at his departing back:

"I'd like to see you try and stop me from coming!" She stood there and glared at him, her arms crossed.

John marched back over to her and said firmly and in a tone that lesser men had quailed at. "You will stay here and you will behave. No tricks and pretending in order to come along. You fooled me with your compliance this morning and that ended up with me punching Mycroft!" Then his toned softened. "Look, it's not that you aren't brave and tough and beautiful," he brushed her hair out of her eyes and used his best charm, "we just don't want you hurt anymore. And look, love, what if you had a full blown flashback in Moran's presence? Then where would you be?" She scowled at him. He tried going back to being tough. "You have to think of this as war. I won't send in a soldier who's going to fall apart. You are use to taking orders. Or at least you use to be. This is an order. You're staying behind." Harsh but necessary. It seemed to work, although he could tell she wasn't happy about it.

Neither of them had noticed the term of endearment.

And John didn't hear what she said as he left.

"We'll see."

oOo

That night

Michael had arrived back at work. He had traded a shift. He kindly offered to work tonight's shift for a junior agent, so said junior agent could visit his mom in the hospital.

He was just that nice.

He chatted up the other security agents on his way in, taking about the latest match coming up, was anyone going down to watch at a pub, anyone going to get lucky after work, laughed and joked about so and so latest attempt to get off with a girl. How's the wife, the family. The usual sort of conversation you'd have with your mates at work.

Just before you killed them all.

Michael was in a good mood. Everyone could see it, laughing and joking. No one questioned it. Michael had always been a good bloke. And so lighthearted.

He should be. He had everything in place.

Before his shift started, he kindly let the agent on duty in the control room get a chance to go to the loo. While in the control room, he spent a few minutes and rewired the security feed to the guest wing and to the front entrance. Taking a page from that movie with the speeding bus, he had a continuous loop all set to feed through, so no one would see him go into the Morstan room and no one would see the arrival of Moran and his men at the front of the house. As much as Moran wanted to see to Morstan personally, they had decided she was too much of a wild card. She was very good at what she did and it wasn't just with knives. Moran had given Michael access to her file and apparently she was full of surprises. It turned out her ability with knives was outstripped by her other talent. Fortunately Michael was as good as she was in that area. He was honoured that Moran had put so much trust in him.

If Michael were to be successful, which he should be, he'd move on to the doctor's room.

The biggest problem was if it did indeed lead to a fight with Morstan, if Michael couldn't take her out with a gun, it was going to be loud and people were sure to show up. He'd have to improvise. He was good at that.

While he was busy taking care of Morstan and the doctor, Moran would come in with his men, right through the front door. Michael had quietly arranged explosives to be sent in a lovely arrangement of fresh cut flowers that had been delivered earlier in the afternoon. It was a regular delivery. It was Mycroft's one weakness. He loved fresh flowers throughout the house. It reminded him of his mother's garden. What Mycroft didn't know was that the vase the flowers had arrived in was made of enough explosives to take out the front door and the security detail there. Moran had enough men with him to ensure the rest of the security in the house would not be a problem.

Moran was going to see to Mycroft personally and he had plans for the younger Holmes. Moran had not forgiven him for enticing Moriarty away from him with their games and puzzles. Moriarty had been perfectly satisfied with Sebastian's forms of entertainment until Sherlock Holmes had come along. He was very, very jealous of the younger Holmes and he held him personally responsible for Moriarty's death. So he wanted to punish him. Personally.

Yes everything was in place.

He just had to wait for the signal.

oOo

Later that night

The four men sat down to dinner in the formal dining room. Mary had refused to come down and was up in her room, as John put it, sulking. He had begun to wonder why he hung out such interesting people who had the added bonus of being first-rate sulkers.

It was an excellent dinner, even though Sherlock was barely touching his food. The first course had just finished when Not-Anthea came into to say that Mycroft had received an urgent call. He left the room while the remaining three chatted about some of Sherlock's adventures while away. John thought the word adventures made it sound like he'd simply gone on a holiday to Spain and had a good time.

Mycroft hurried back into the room.

"We have a serious problem."

The other three put down their forks.

"I have received information that Moran has an agent in the house. One of our people was seen entering a bar earlier today where some of Moran's associates have also been spotted. We need to detain him and discover what he knows about Moran and what Moran may know about us. I would like to know why I wasn't informed of this sooner."

"Perhaps you have more than one mole in your offices," Sherlock replied, not quite snarkily.

"Who is it?" John asked.

"It's Michael Park, the agent assigned to Ms. Morstan's room. He just happens to be working an extra shift tonight."

Sherlock and John looked at each other and both stood up to run out of the room.

"Wait," said Mycroft "We don't know what his plans are and we don't know if he knows that we have been informed about his identity. We need to proceed with caution in order to apprehend him."

John and Sherlock looked back at each other and nodded. They reluctantly sat back down. If they just went running to Mary's room, Michael could become suspicious and flee or turn violent. If he were at Mary's door right now, he would be between them and Mary. Not a good option.

"What if I just saunter up there and give it all a good look," said Lestrade. "He doesn't know me and maybe he wouldn't be suspicious. I could check things out and report back."

"On the contrary, if you were to wander around up there he probably would be suspicious. We'll have to think of something else," said Sherlock, less snide than usual. He must have missed Lestrade. Then he grinned, an evil grin that seemed to say _I know something Lestrade doesn't_ and looked at John. "Well this is all stupid. John's been in and out of Mary's room all day and is apparently _familiar_ with it. Why don't you just go and have a look? He won't notice anything unusual about that."

John tried to ignore the looks Greg was shooting him and he tried not to blush. He failed miserably. He really wasn't ready to talk about his not quite relationship with Mary yet.

"Thanks for that Sherlock."

John stood up to go.

Unfortunately he didn't get very far, because that was when the vase of flowers in the front entry decided to explode.

oOo

A few minutes earlier.

Michael was once again stationed outside Morstan's room.

His outward appearance was all patience and professionalism. Inwardly he was becoming obscenely excited about tonight's fun. He wished there would be more time to have a different sort of fun with that Mary. She was very pretty and Michael specialized in showing a pretty girl a good time, his idea of a good time, before he killed them. Unfortunately it wasn't to be. He'd just have to pick up some unsuspecting girl after they were finished here tonight. This type of job always got him worked up.

He received a text message.

_**Positions secure. We are all in**__**place.**_

That was going to cause some problems. The text was earlier than Michael had originally anticipated. Something must have happened. The doctor was having dinner and not in his room. Maybe if he finished with Morstan early he'd be able to intercept the doctor downstairs.

This next part would be a little tricky because all messages in and out of the house were scanned and tracked. He would have to move quickly. If he were lucky in the chaos of the bomb going off no one should have time to track down one text.

He pushed one button on his mobile. It sent a signal to the security cameras to start playing the loop. It was more of a precaution. Surely security would be more concerned and focused on the front door after the bomb was detonated, but just in case someone decided to check the guest wing, he was all set.

He pushed another button on his mobile.

It sent a signal to the flowers at the front door.

They exploded.

The house rocked.

He could hear moans coming from the front of the house and a minute later the sound of men as they entered.

He fit a silencer on his gun.

Time to move.

He grasped the doorknob to Mary's room.

oOo

A few minutes earlier

Mary stood on the floor beside the bed not far from the door. She had changed into comfortable cotton clothing and she was barefoot. She thought if she did some yoga she might calm down and focus.

She knew John thought she was sulking.

She didn't sulk.

Ok. Maybe she did a little.

But, she resented the implication that she was fragile and she didn't like to think _they_ thought she was a liability. That had hurt.

She didn't like staying behind.

So, she was still mad at John.

Intellectually she understood what he had said, but she didn't like it.

Emotionally, well emotionally she knew it would not be easy to look at Moran and not be haunted by what he had done. She'd like to believe she was stronger than that. She had broken down earlier, but a lot of that was stress and shock. Now that she was prepared and knew…wouldn't it be better? She had been in situations almost as tough before.

She really didn't like being mad at John.

And if she was mad at John and if she was in her room sulking, it meant she couldn't go down and see Sherlock.

She had not had a chance to see him yet. She wanted to see how he was. They had always had a strange relationship. Not really close, but always aware. The nickname had said it all. adf. He only ever talked to her if he wanted something, but sometimes she wondered if he made up obscure questions for her just to see if she was still there. His weird way of saying '_hi'_.

He easily could have looked up information on the distribution of scars a throwing star would have left on a body with out bothering to send her a text. Hell, he'd probably prefer practicing on a corpse.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to kiss him for coming back or slap him really hard for what he had done to everyone, but in particularly how it had affected John. He hid it fairly well, but she could see how haunted he had been by Sherlock's death. And even in the midst of their fight, he looked like the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.

So yeah, slapping seemed like a good idea.

Her mind flitted from thought to thought and her emotions the last couple of days had been up and down like a roller coaster. She didn't like roller coasters.

So maybe if she did some deep breathing and some yoga, she could gain back some focus.

She told her mind to be quiet and she had just started with _Namaste. _Then the room was rocked by an explosion that had come from the front of the house. She looked around the room. Her bag with her knives was on a chair on the other side of the bed. She started to move to grab them.

Just in case.

The doorknob turned.

_What the hell? _Echoed in her head as she turned and tookasteptoward the door.

And stopped.

Michael had come into her room.

And he stood there with a gun with a silencer pointed at her. She frowned and then she smiled.

It wasn't a nice smile.

"Switching sides are we?" she asked.

Michael grinned back at her, "Why no, Ms. Morstan. I'm on the same side I've always been."

Mary nodded. She understood perfectly.

"So would you prefer me to stand still while you shoot me? 'Cause that ain't gonna happen."

_Looks like I'm not going to miss all the fun after all, _she thought.

And then she moved.

oOo

The dining room at the Mycroft Holmes estate was, fortunately, at the back of the house, near the kitchens. The force from the explosions was deflected out toward the front of the house. The four men felt the explosion, but there was minimum damage where they were.

Fortunately all four had decided to carry their weapons after this afternoon's meeting.

Just in case.

Because judging by the sounds that had come from the front of the building they were going to need them.

Mycroft calmly pushed a button under the table. This was something Michael didn't know about, not having high enough clearance.

It was Mycroft's deadly little secret.

The four men looked at each other and knew how they were going to play this.

**A/N: Yes I'm that evil. I had fun with this one. Hope you did too!**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Hope you haven't been in too much suspense! Here's some more excitement! This one was tricky to write with all the back and forth between characters and times. Hope I didn't miss anything.**

**Special Hello toMegaTigger98 (the wonderful thing about Tiggers…)**

**Some swearing, general violence.**

Chapter 13 – earlier that day

Moran left the pub shortly after Michael had. He headed out the back door of the pub. Not many CCTV cameras in this part of London, especially in an old alley. He had other plans to see to. He knew Michael would carry out his orders and have everything in place, but that wasn't all that needed to be prepared.

Even Michael didn't know about these plans. Moran had no one to trust ever since Moriarty had died. Now he had one person he was putting his trust in and he really didn't know who it was. He knew they were highly placed in Mycroft's organization. They knew things, had access to information even Michael didn't know about. It was almost exciting. It was almost worth it. He had been waiting to bring down Mycroft Holmes for so many years and Mycroft had no idea that someone so close to him was going to help.

He really shouldn't be so trusting. But everything they had sent to him, every bit of information had been checked and cleared and had been accurate.

Now everything was in place he couldn't wait any longer. He had given his orders and he was going to have them carried out tonight.

He was going to relish the moment when he saw both the Holmes men die. They were going to see all their little friends die first and Sherlock was going to see his brother die. Then Sherlock was going to die very slowly. He deserved it. Mycroft had crushed his plans for an empire, but Sherlock had destroyed his god.

No he couldn't wait. He was on his way now to meet with this person. They were going to get him and a few of his men into the house before tonight. Michael had no idea his part was a diversion. Well except killing Morstan and Watson. That was just expediency.

Moriarty had taught him many things, but one thing he had taught him well is that diversion is a useful tool.

And it's always good to have more than one agent in place.

oOo

Later that day

Michael was secretly pleased that he hadn't just shot her as soon as he entered the room. He really wanted to have a go at her after reading her file. He was a master at his craft and apparently so was she. It wasn't often you had the opportunity to take on someone at the same level.

He was going to enjoy this.

oOo

Mary had a secret.

It wasn't a well-kept secret because everyone in this business found out your strengths and weakness quickly. She had a feeling Moran would have informed this Michael all about her special skills, but even Moran really didn't know how good she was at this. Sherlock knew because he'd read it in her stance the first time they'd met and it was one of the things that had intrigued him. It intrigued him enough that he kept coming back once every blue moon to work with her, perfecting his own skills. Not that he'd needed much. Mycroft was well aware. After all, he'd been involved on some level with the training of most of the recruits. Everyone else thought her real specialty was with knives. Hell, they were just a party trick compared with how good she was using her body as a weapon. Her mum had sent her to dance and gymnastics from the time she was 5. Her dad had wanted a boy, her dad, who had a passion for the cheesy martial arts films of the '70s and had raised his daughter on a steady diet of that genre from an early age. They'd watch together on cold East Coast winter nights. Warmed them up some how. He had ensured his daughter had been enrolled in as many classes as she could fit in. After her mother died when she was 12, that's all there was. And that, not her throwing skills or even how she looked oh so innocent and her size, which made people less suspicious of her, was the main reason she had been recruited, in spite of what she had told John, because yes it was important to kill your target, but it was important to get away, so you could go and do it all over again. She didn't usually use the arts to kill someone because you had to be in close contact in order to do that and that wasn't safe. They were for defence, usually. She preferred using knives to kill, because they were usually silent and a knife was harder to trace than a bullet, as long as you could take it away with you. She had been taught juggling at summer camp one year and had developed it well enough to use knives. That had lead to busking on the streets of Halifax one August. She and a friend had developed a knife throwing routine. She was seventeen. That's when the shadowy figures of secrets and spying and killers of threats had started keeping an eye on her. The medals and ribbons and awards racking up on her father's shelf in the den hadn't hurt either. Then her father died halfway through her third year of University and the offer had come. And they took her talents and honed them and perfected them and set her on the world at the age of twenty-three. All the rest of it was frosting on the cake. She had combined all these passions, dance, gymnastics, karate all of it and came up with her own style, her own brand of mixed martial arts.

And she was fast.

Michael hardly knew she had moved before the gun was swept out of his hand. He blinked and then threw himself into the fight. He was very good. She would just have to be better.

Michael threw out a punch to her head and she blocked it. That's what most of it was: punches, blocks, knee and elbow strikes, kicks. He grabbed her arm at one point and pulled it behind her, she rolled him over her back. She hadn't been kidding when she told John she could throw him across the room. Well maybe not quite that far. Michael leaped back onto his feet and kicked her hard in the chest. She hit the bureau behind her and the air rushed out of her. It would have been a good time for Michael to pick up the gun, but he was enjoying himself too much to merely shoot her. It gave her time to get back on her feet.

They weren't exactly evenly matched. They certainly had advantages and disadvantages over each other. Michael was younger than she was, about the age when she had stopped being an assassin. He outweighed her and had probably been fighting more regularly. At least fighting with the intent to kill. She was short so he had a longer reach. But because she was short she could come in under some of his punches. She was also very fast. She was dressed in more fluid clothing, which helped with flexibility while he was in a suit and tie, which hindered his movements. She was barefoot and was anticipating the time he realized that and started stomping on her feet.

He managed to catch her chin and she faltered. He followed with a blow to her ribs. She swept her leg out and he fell and she was back on him. He threw her and she tucked and rolled away as he came after her. She rolled out into the hallway, which was better. There was more room here.

They resumed fighting, the blows and kicks rained down.

But Mary was tiring. The problem was he had given her some hard knocks. She was pretty sure that that kick to the ribs had cracked something, two fingers were broken on her left hand, there was a cut on her forehead and the blood running down was obscuring her vision on that side, her nose was bleeding and probably broken and that last blow to her chin had really hurt. It had also been a while since she'd had to put up with this level of action. She was going to have to try to get in a mortal blow soon, but she had difficulty getting close enough.

That's when he kicked her down again. She hit her head against the wall and came close to blacking out. He pulled out the gun again. He must have grabbed it when she had rolled out into the hall.

"As much fun as this has been, Ms. Morstan, unfortunately I have other thing to attend to."

He raised the gun to point it at her.

oOo

They knew it was an attack from Moran without having to say anything.

John left first. He knew where he was going. The other three did as well. In that inexplicable way that people had who worked together in adversity and in difficulty situations, the four men knew where everyone was going without saying a word. It would be a variation on their original plans. They hadn't been prepared for an attack on Mycroft's house, but they would work as if they had.

John raced through to the kitchens and past the security room. He went up the back stairs to the guest wing. As he drew closer he could hear crashes and the noise of bodies that had hit the floor. He didn't hear yelling, but grunts of pain and heavy breathing. He drew his gun and came up the last few steps in time to see Mary had rolled out of the bedroom and a few seconds later Michael had come after her.

His mouth fell open a little. He hadn't known. It was a surprise. He stood there for a second wrapping his head around the fight that was going on in front of him. It was like watching poetry or dance or something. He'd seen some good sparing matches in his army days, especially when they had down time or some of the units from other countries came by and in their boredom they entertained themselves with fights and bets. This was better than anything he had seen.

He was becoming aware that they were both tiring and he needed to move closer and finish this if Mary couldn't. That was when he saw Michael kick her hard into the wall. She lay there, dazed. Michael pulled a gun.

"As much fun as this has been, Ms. Morstan, unfortunately I have other thing to attend to."

Michael raised his gun, but before he could aim and pull the trigger, John shot him in the head.

He ran over to where Mary lay as she tried to get her breath back.

"Are you ok?" he asked anxiously, as he helped her to sit up a bit.

"I'll live. That bastard was good. He pretty much had me. Thanks for showing up and good shot by the way."

John grinned at the memory it conjured up, but then started looking at her injuries.

"I think there's a first aid kit in the bathroom," she said. "Mycroft must worry his guest are going to damage each other. I guess he was right to worry," she giggled a little. She knew she was losing it. All the aches and pains had caused her to lose coherent thought. The blow to her head hadn't helped.

John returned with the kit and a wet flannel and quickly and efficiently wiped the blood off her face. Her nose had mostly stopped bleeding. He placed a plaster on the cut on her forehead. He taped her two broken fingers together.

"It looks like you have damage to your ribs and you have a lovely bump on the back of your head," his tone sounded angry, but was more from the fright he had had when he saw what had happened.

She looked at him and chuckled, "I've had worse. Believe me." She surprised him a bit when she grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him in for a rough kiss. "Nice that you care so much," she said as she released him.

He grinned back at her. "Not right now, please. Right now I'm going to get you some paracetamol and find a place to hole you up."

"No chance, nope, not going to happen," she said shaking her head at him. "See what happens when I'm on my own? I'm going with you."

"Mary you are injured, your ribs are bruised if not cracked. If you get hit again, they're likely to break. No."

"Well you can try, Watson, but I'll find a way to follow you. So shut up and get my damn running shoes and my knives and let's join the party."

John glared at her.

"Look," she said, "we can waste all kinds of time being stubborn. But our friends are in trouble and we can help. So move your ass and get my stuff."

He knew she was right, but he didn't like it. He ran to grab her shoes and bag.

He came back and while she was putting on her shoes, he said, "There's something we'll need to do first."

She looked at him and raised her eyebrows as he explained.

oOo

When John headed out the room towards the kitchen, Mycroft followed behind towards the room were the security detail was ready to be dispatched.

Even though Mycroft was the British government, there were only eight agents here. That was actually four up from what would normally be in place. He had doubled security after bring John and Mary back to the house last night.

The two at the front door were incapacitated, if not dead. Michael was an enemy presence in his house. That left these four agents and his ever faithful, personal assistant Anthea.

He spoke to the lead agent.

"You will need to send one agent out to sweep the perimeter and ensure that no further enemy agents are entering. Send one to personally check all other entrances and exits. One will stay and monitor activity from here. One will come with me to check the front of the house and prevent a breach there. I have instituted a priority one protocol on the house and have signaled for reinforcements. The special forces team will arrive in the next ten minutes. We also need to redirect the police. There are sensitive issues involved here. If the local constabulary were to find out what is going on, we will have more than a egotistical mad man to deal with."

The agent nodded and indicated that Mycroft's orders were being carried out.

"Carry on. You know what is expected of you."

Mycroft left followed by the lead agent who took up a flanking position beside him. They would join Sherlock and Lestrade in protecting the front of the house. They would try to ensure that Moran and his men would go no further. He didn't notice that ever faithful Anthea wasn't following him.

oOo

Meanwhile Sherlock and Lestrade both drew weapons and slowly made their way through the door on the other side of the dining room into an unlit sitting area. They moved cautiously and carefully. This room led into the front entryway. They hadn't seen any movement in the front hall. It would be a matter of time.

Lestrade had been surprised to find Sherlock now carried a gun. He had been purposely ignorant of John's gun all this time. He ignored the illegality to be expedient. Sherlock had seldom carried a gun before and Lestrade was pleased that John had been there to protect him, knowing the kind of trouble Sherlock could get into. John knew how to handle a gun properly. He wasn't sure he could say the same about Sherlock.

Sherlock had informed him of the weapon earlier in the day and in his characteristically sarcastic way, only slightly softened in deference for his expanding feelings toward Greg, had told him he had found it extremely helpful while on the run systematically killing Moriarty's henchmen. It sounded like he had discovered the proper way to use a gun, after all.

Greg had nodded and wisely refrained from asking specific details.

The less he knew and all that.

They had talked over dinner about other things Sherlock had been up to on the run these last few months.

Now they made their way closer to the door. They could see shattered glass and chunks of plaster. One wall was blackened from the blast. There were two agents lying just outside the broken front door. Or what was left of them.

"God," whispered Greg. "You just don't get use to that, ever." He was working his mouth in order to keep from being sick.

But there was no one else there.

Sherlock stood there, taking in the wreckage that had been the front entry, his eyes were flicked back and forth rapidly.

_If the idea was to use the bomb to destroy the house it wasn't powerful enough. _

_The bomb had been powerful enough to blowout the front door and kill the agents._

_The blast, radiated outwards not in, suggesting the idea was to destroy the front door._

_Suggesting the front door would be destroyed in order to allow access to the house._

_So where is the invading army of Moran's men? _

_Why have they not moved in quickly under the cover of the chaos a bomb would have caused?_

_Ah, of course. It's because the bomb is a…_

"Diversion," he said out loud.

"What?" asked Greg.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Why couldn't anyone keep up?

"We need to leave here and go to the back of the house. This is a diversion." He ran toward the hallway that led past Mycroft's office. "Hurry, Lestrade," he called.

oOo

John kept his gun out and ready. He and Mary cautiously made their way to the top of the front staircase. This was not ideal as there was not much cover. There was not much noise coming up the stairs. The front entry was a mess. There was shattered glass and plaster everywhere.

Something wasn't right.

John thought hard about this, thought about it from a military point of view.

_You don't plant a bomb at the front entrance of a building, if you are not trying to gain access to it. If it were meant to level the building it would have been a bigger bomb. It would have been easier to kill them, just destroy the house if they had just used more explosives._

_If I had planned an attack on this house I would have brought men in as soon as the bomb went off. Therefore…_

This was a diversion.

They needed to see what was happening in the rest of the house.

It was a shame that Sherlock hadn't been there to hear John's thoughts at that moment. He would have been pleased that John could indeed keep up.

He signaled to Mary and they pulled back around the corner.

"Something's up," he whispered to her. "Moran hasn't brought anyone in yet. He's wasting valuable time. I'm afraid that there's more going on than we can see. We need to get to the back of the house and check it out, but we need to get word to Mycroft as well."

"What do we do?" she asked.

"Let's go down the stairs to the back. We can check it out and then head around to find Mycroft. It will be faster than going through the front to find him and we can kill two birds as it were."

She nodded and they took off down the hall.

They trotted down the stairs and stopped at the bottom. John heard Mary gasp.

Mycroft had shown John and Lestrade photos of Moran at the meeting and of course Mary knew him very well.

He was standing at the bottom of the stairs with three other people who had guns levelled at them. Moran surprisingly did not have a gun out. One of the three was…

Anthea.

John cursed under his breath. He lowered his gun.

"Ah the lovely Ms. Morstan. My dear, I wish I had time to pick up were we last left off, but sadly I do not."

John heard Mary breathing harder beside him, but she seemed steady on her feet.

"And of course the pet," he sneered at John. "Your death shall make Sherlock so upset. Well as upset as he ever gets, I suppose. I wish I had shot you that day. The day he jumped. I had you lined up in my sights the whole time. But Jim had specifically warned me he would be most put out with me if I killed you after Sherlock had jumped. He had plans for you, you see. Even with Sherlock making the sacrifice he did. When I found out later that Jim had died, I almost came and killed you then, but I'm glad I didn't. This will be so much better, because Sherlock can now see your dead body."

He turned to Anthea. "Now my dear." He smiled at her. She smiled back. And shot Mary and John in the chest.

She didn't miss.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Now if you are all still speaking to me Sorry for the cliffhanger ending – um no actually I'm not (just a little bit evil)**

**There are a series of flashbacks in this chapter. They are not in chronological order. That is deliberate.**

**Some violence, a bit of swearing. **

Chapter 14 – So it went something like this.

Earlier that day

Anthea was waiting for Moran at a prearranged spot. She picked him up in an unmarked vehicle. One that even Mycroft wasn't aware of. Moran got into the car after all the usual suspicions, which were alleviated by the correct code words.

"I am most surprised to see that you have been the one supplying me with all that pertinent information," he said smoothly. "Would you care to explain why someone who has been as loyal as you would turn your back on such a generous benefactor?"

Anthea glanced over at him as she drove, coolly, without a hint of emotion. "Well Col. Moran, sir, I'm afraid you've hit the nail on the head. I do not have a generous benefactor. I am hoping, as we discussed when I first contacted you, that my change of employment will alleviate some of my financial woes."

"Will you be able to supply me with any other information regarding Mycroft Holmes endeavors? I would be generous with you helping me kill the Holmes brothers, but if you bring more to the table I believe you will be happy with my offer."

"Yes, sir. I have years of data and pertinent information on many of Mr. Holmes operations. I am sure you will find them all to be valuable. You would be able to use most of the information yourself or you may wish to sell some of it to the highest bidder." She smiled at him again.

"We certainly should be able to come to an understanding. You may have to do one or two little favours tonight to prove your loyalty, but I'm sure you will be able to do so.

"I'm quite sure, sir."

Moran smiled to himself.

Later Anthea would place him and his men in the back of a delivery lorry that would be dropping off groceries to the Holmes residence. She would ensure it would not need to be checked. She would assist them when they got there and hide them in the wine cellar just bellow the kitchen. She would bring him and his men out as soon as she was able, once the bomb exploded.

oOo

Later that night

Sherlock and Lestrade ran into Mycroft and the lead agent almost right away.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said urgently. "The explosion at the front door. It's a diversion. Moran did not bring any men into the house. There must be another plan to have him enter."

Mycroft pursed his lips together and rose up on his toes with his hands behind his back, thinking. "Hmmm. Yes I see…" he turns to the lead agent. "Go at once to the control room, pull up any video from today and see if there are any suspicious comings and goings. At least ones that maybe aren't suspicious at first glance."

The agent ran quickly to the control room.

"Yes," said Sherlock "I see."

"Well I bloody well don't. What the hell is going on?" said Greg.

"Mycroft and I are thinking that Moran may have arrived earlier today and has hidden himself somewhere in the house."

"You know for someone who's a bleedin' important as you are with all your James Bond gadgets, you certainly have piss pour security," said Greg, running his hand through his hair.

Mycroft shot him a wintery stare. "Yes, thank you Detective Inspector. I suggest we go to the control room and see what they are able to discover."

The three men turned to run back to the control room. That's when they heard two shots being fired.

oOo

Anthea moved over to where John and Mary were lying on the floor, just at the foot of the stairs. She bent down and took each pulse and retrieved John's gun.

"Dead?" said Moran with a gleam of delight in his eyes.

"Yes, sir. Very sir"

"Well I would imagine that the sounds of gunfire should bring some of our friends running to us. Oh and here they are now!"

At that moment Sherlock, Mycroft and Lestrade rounded the corner with the lead agent. The arrival of the group caused Moran's people to turn away from John and Mary. The four men arriving had their guns drawn. They stopped when they took in the group of people in front of them.

Sherlock eyes widened in horror as he noticed the two still bodies lying on the floor, blood spreading on their chests. Heart shots.

"John," he whispered. "No! John!" He moved to run forward. An equally horrified Lestrade grabbed him around the waist.

"Stop Sherlock. There's nothing you can do for either of them."

Lestrade had noticed what Sherlock, who notices everything had failed to take in, his eyes only his friend. They were out numbered by one and everyone had guns out.

Mycroft looked shocked when he saw who was standing with Moran.

"Anthea? I cannot believe this. How can you possible be involved with this?"

"Believe it Mycroft darling," she said. "Believe that I killed John and Mary as well."

At those words, Sherlock made another forward lurch. This time both Lestrade and Mycroft had to hold him back.

Moran stepped forward.

"This has been something I have been waiting for, for a very long time. Now gentlemen, if you would be so kind as to lower your weapons."

"Don't be ridiculous Sebastian. A special forces group will be arriving momentarily. Even if you manage to kill us all, there is no way you will be able to leave this building alive," sniffed Mycroft, as if he were discussing the fact that his soup was too cold.

"I am not surprised by this. In fact I expected it. Don't worry. I'm going to kill you and your two men there. Oh, I am planning on taking you with me, Sherlock. I owe you for causing Moriarty's death."

Moran was so engrossed with Mycroft's group that he failed to notice that Anthea had crept closer to him. He did notice when he felt the nozzle of John's gun pressed firmly against his temple and Anthea's arm around his throat in a chokehold.

"I don't think you will be doing that tonight…sir," she hissed in his ear.

oOo

Rewind 1 -Dinner

The first course had just finished when Anthea came into to say that Mycroft had received an urgent call. He left the room with her. They went quickly and quietly into Mycroft's office.

"Sir I have everything in place. Moran is in the wine cellar. I believe he has a diversion of some sort arranged, but I have been unable to discover what that might entail. I do know that Michael has tampered with the video feed for the guest wing and the front door. It may have something to do with those areas."

"Hmmm. I will alert the agents at the front door to be extra vigilant. I believe if he were to try to take on any of the guests he will be in for a surprise. We cannot afford to change any of our routines. We must make it appear that we are unaware of his plans for tonight."

"Sir, he wishes me to prove my loyalty to him. I believe he will ask me to kill one or more of your guests."

"My dear I have everything arrange should you be forced to do that. Hopefully you will not be called upon to do that, but if you are, here is what you will do."

Rewind 2 – The meeting between Sherlock, John, Mycroft and Lestrade

"There is one more item we must discuss gentlemen," Mycroft said. "I have an agent inside Moran's operation. I do not wish to reveal who it is at this time, because, well if this all goes wrong we do not want that person compromised. If you were captured…"

"Yeah, we get it. We might tell," said Greg.

"Yes," said Mycroft. "I haven't much to protect you from Moran's guns. When we discover his whereabouts, you will be provided with bulletproof vests, but if you happen to be near this agent if and when they have to prove their loyalty by shooting you, you should be wearing one of these. And I have one for Ms. Morstan as well Doctor, if you would be so kind to give it to her. I am afraid she probably will not wish to speak to me."

"What are they?" John asked.

"One of my little tricks," smiles Mycroft at him. "Oh and should one of you be shot at in front of the others, let's all try to use our very best acting skills, hmmm?"

"It's like James Bond, yeah?" said Greg.

Rewind 3 - after the fight between Mary and Michael

While she was putting on her shoes, he said, "There's something we'll need to do first."

She looked at him and raised her eyebrows as he explained about Mycroft's 'little trick'.

"So you're saying we put this on and when this undercover agent shoots us it looks like we've been shot? Like a movie special effect?" Mary asked.

"Yes," said John. "I'm given to understand that this agent has a special gun that will fire the blood pack under your clothes. Some kind of electronic signal from the gun or something. I meant to give it to you earlier, but well, you seemed a little annoyed with me, so…"

"Yeah, well I hate being left behind," she had the grace to blush. Then she asked, "And we lie down and play dead," Mary frowned. "As long as no one looks too closely."

"Yeah, as long as no one looks too closely. It's not much of a chance, but it might work."

"Well it's better than nothing."

John helped her put it on.

Rewind 4 – Mary's first night in London – after Mycroft meets with her

"We will need to let him know that she has arrived in London. He will be most interested in knowing that she is looking after Dr. Watson. Perhaps this will draw him out of hiding."

Anthea turned her head slightly in his direction, ever texting, and raised one perfect eyebrow. She nodded slightly, her fingers never pausing.

"When you initiate contact with Moran, I am afraid I have to ask you to do something else for me," a hint of regret in his smooth features. "I will require you to go undercover in Moran's organization, quietly at first, offering overtures and pieces of information. If you begin with passing this information along of Ms. Morstan's arrival in London, it should open doors."

"Yes, sir. Of course,"

"Don't you ever worry about some of the things I ask you to do?" asked Mycroft in a rare, sentimental mood. But Anthea was a treasure to him, irreplaceable.

"Sir, it's what I was trained for," she smiled slightly and continued doing what everyone believed was her only skill. They had planned it that way.

Rewind 5 – After the explosion

Mycroft calmly pushed a button under the table. This was something Michael didn't know about, not having high enough clearance.

The table was wired to send a signal to Anthea's Blackberry letting her know it was time to prepare for her final part in Mycroft's plan to capture Colonel Sebastian Moran. These signals were set throughout the house. Had been placed there for security measures.

Anthea, unknown to any of the others, had been trained under a similar program as Mary had been, but a few years behind. After Moran had been brought down. She was a formidable assassin in her own right as well as bodyguard. And a bloody good personal assistant.

Anthea was actually her real name. No one ever believed her, it was an unusual name. She was named for her Greek Grandmother Antheia, on her mother's side. Her name meant 'flower' or 'blossom'.

She was Mycroft's deadly little secret.

oOo

Real time

Moran's men all pointed their guns at the others. The tension was thick.

"I do not have a problem with shooting the Colonel, gentlemen, so please hand your weapons over to Mr. Holmes' people," although her language was in her usual polite vernacular, her tone was unyielding and harsh. It wasn't a tone the others who knew her were use to. They complied and Lestrade picked up their weapons.

John and Mary decided to drop the charade of playing dead and they both sat up.

Sherlock, who had been informed of the possibility that their death could be a ruse during the meeting with Mycroft and the evidence pointed to the fact that Anthea was probably the undercover agent, still felt enormous relief as they stood. He rushed over to where the two were, John holding his head.

"Christ," said John. "I think I hit my bloody head again, when I fell." He looked up at Sherlock, Sherlock who did not believe in or appreciate sentiment, stood there, agitation evident in his stance.

He didn't say anything for a moment. John just grinned up at him.

"I believe I am experiencing some distress at the idea that you may have actually been killed," he paused. "I did not like it. I think I have a new appreciation for what you may have experienced during my absence."

"That's because you are an idiot," John said softly and he hugged his friend.

Neither of them noticed Mary for a moment who was ignoring the men beside her, her eyes on Moran as he now knelt on the floor, hands behind his head, with Anthea holding John's gun at the back of it. He was watching her as well. There was unspoken tension between the two.

She reached for her bag and pulled out a knife. A large pale hand reached out and wrapped around her wrist.

"You do not want to do this, Mary," Sherlock said quietly to her. She glared at him some of her hatred for Moran temporarily transferring itself to him.

John glanced between the two and he understood what they were talking about.

"Believe me," he continued as he came closer to her. "I have discovered the hard way that taking matters into your own hand can be detrimental to others and eventually yourself. Besides we may need his cooperation."

"Are you telling me if Moriarty were alive today and standing in front of you, you wouldn't do this?" she hissed at him. "Are you saying he doesn't deserve to die?"

"Since that is not a possibility I can say in this instance, no. But if it were a possibility then, yes I would be very tempted to do the same. It would have saved a lot of pain and suffering if I had had the chance to kill him earlier."

John's eyebrows rose a little at that piece of news, not the killing part. He would have gladly killed Moriarty, himself, no qualms there. No it was the part about relieving pain and suffering. Perhaps his detective friend had indeed learned some compassion during all of this.

Sherlock wasn't finished speaking, "He most assuredly deserves to die. And I would gladly kill him to protect John and you and others, but not in this manner, not by you. Do not execute this bastard in cold blood. You do not need his blood on your hands."

Mary glared once more and then some of the tension left her and she nodded, letting Sherlock take her knife and the bag. She went and sat on the bottom step of the stairs. John sat with her, putting his arm around her, whispering words of comfort and encouragement in her ear.

Moran's eyes had been following their conversation. Since they were speaking quietly he couldn't hear everything they said, but he certainly understood his life was in question at moment. _Weakness,_ he thought _they should kill me. They'd be foolish not too._ Would not hesitate in their position and had been happy and prepared to do so.

Mary glanced back at him and he smiled a cruel, reptilian smile. He saw her shiver slightly. His grin broadened. He grew very thoughtful.

The special forces group chose that moment to arrive, as did the other agents who had been checking the rest of the defenses.

_I really do need to update some of our training practices_, Mycroft thought to himself.

_Those agents should have been here sooner._

Moran and his men were taken into custody no doubt to one of Mycroft's special prisons, where hopefully he would be able to extract additional information from them regarding Moriarty's organization.

After Moran was in custody, Anthea walked over to where John and Mary were sitting and calmly handed his gun back to him. John looked up at her and placed his gun back in his waistband. He glanced at Mary and back to Anthea.

"You lot are rather full of surprises, aren't you?" he said.

Anthea just smiled coolly at him and walked back to Mycroft.

oOo

1 week later – temporary residence of Mycroft Holmes

Sherlock jogged up the stairs. He had been searching for John for a while now. He wasn't answering his texts and he had no idea where else he might be. They had plans they needed to discuss.

_Damn the man! Where was he? Why won't he answer me?_

As he approached John's door he observed that one of Mary's throwing knives was sticking out from it. It was pinning a note in place.

_Sherlock,_

_**DO NOT**__ bother us right now. _

_We are indisposed at the moment. _

_I'll find you later._

_John_

_P.S. In case you think I'm kidding _

_I have my gun and Mary's got more knives!_

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he read the note. He huffed. Did John really think that a simple threat was going to keep him from speaking to him? There was much to prepare.

Then he reread the note and as he stood there he understood the implications of the content.

He slowly smiled.

_Well at least it's someone I know and she's not nearly as dull as his other conquests._

He jogged back the way he came hoping to come across Mycroft, looking forward to annoying him for a bit while he waited.

oOo

Later

They lay together on the bed, Mary's head resting on his chest. He had his arms wrapped around her and was stroking her back. He was tracing the outline of some of her scars. Most were smooth. The knife Moran had used had been razor sharp and only fine white lines were left as a reminder, but a few had rough edges where he hadn't been as careful. These were the ones that kept catching under John's hands.

It had caused some awkwardness earlier. The heat and passion of finally deciding to stop circling around each other and their feelings had faltered when he moved to take her shirt off. She had blushed and held on to the bottom of it, as she bit her lip.

"It's ok, love," he whispered. She looked up into his warm, kind eyes and saw nothing but trust and love there. He pulled off his own shirt first and she saw the scars on his left shoulder, only one entry and one exit wound, but no less devastating. She gently reached up and touched it. Then with tears in her eyes she let him pull off her shirt. She shivered under his touch as he in turn traced one of hers on her left shoulder. Her eyes filled with tears and he kissed her.

And later as they lay together, she shivered again.

"Cold?" he asked, pulling the duvet up over them.

"Not much. Just thinking," she murmured.

"About what?"

She lifted her head to look at him her chin still resting on his chest. He noticed that the black under her eyes from her broken nose was slowly changing to purple and green. He'd fixed her nose for her, moving the cartilage back into place when they had a minute. He'd teased her gently, a little about the lovely shade they were turning. She'd smacked him lightly on the arm. Her ribs were still tender as well, but they were only bruised.

"You're going with him, aren't you?"

John didn't say anything for a moment. He, Sherlock and Mycroft had been holed up in meetings ever since they came to the new residence. Mycroft's other house was under repairs. They'd explained the damage to the papers as a gas leak. The papers as ever unobservant, believed them.

"I have to," he said. "I need to be there to watch his back." He paused. "He wasn't going to let me come and I said he couldn't leave me behind."

She had lowered her head again at his words and he could feel her smile against his skin.

"That sounds familiar."

He chuckled. Then he cleared his throat. "I have to, Mary. We're like two halves and we don't work well without the other. We're both broken when we're apart." He didn't want her to misunderstand. She was as important to him, but in a different way. "It's different with what I have here with you…"

She lifted her head and placed her hand on his mouth.

"It's ok. I get it. I'm not hurt." She looked at him fiercely. "You chose him, but you'll come home to me."

And she kissed him long and hard.

They didn't talk again for a while.

oOo

They left at the end of the following week. John with his small army knapsack on his back, in his black jacket and Sherlock still looking odd in his jeans and hoodie.

They were going to finish off the last of Moriarty's web. They'd come back when they were done.

John had explained his absent to everyone saying he was going to Canada with his friend for a change of pace and to get a break from London and his sorrow.

Lestrade, who was staying, was going to be there to convince everyone it was true. He was also going to have Mycroft's help in discovering who the mole was at the Yard. Now that he knew there was one he was sure he'd be able to figure it out.

They all stood in the sitting room at the new house saying their goodbyes. Greg shook hands with the two men and slapped them on the back. Mycroft wished them well, in his usually formal way. Mary came up to Sherlock and kissed him. She whispered in his ear.

"If he dies, I'll kill you."

He looked at her, his eyes glittering strangely. He replied, "If he dies, you won't have to."

She looked at him and nodded and kissed him again.

She moved John over to one side to have a few minutes alone before he left.

"Have you decided what you're going to do? Take Mycroft up on his offer?" he asked trying to delay his goodbye as much as he dared. Mycroft had offered her a job to help up grade his security systems.

She smiled and shook her head. "No. I really don't think England would survive for very long if Mycroft and I worked together. Beside I don't think I can deal with any more of his plans and intrigues. No, I'm going to go home for a while, back to Toronto at first. I have some things I need to get together, business and stuff. And then I'm going away somewhere quiet. Do some thinking. A friend, well actually a former client has an open invitation to use her cottage somewhere near Georgian Bay, in the Muskokas. She owns a small lake or something."

"That's some grateful client," he said.

"I'll tell you the story someday. She owes me big," her eyes twinkled for a moment and then she sobered.

"Take care. Be good," she said.

And they kissed and John and Sherlock left.

**A/N: There will be one more chapter.**


	16. Chapter 16 Epilogue

A/N: **One last big thanks for everyone who's checked out this story – even if you disagreed or didn't like things. I know it's not even close to canon, that's not why I wrote it. I have had a lot of fun doing this. This has been an amazing experience for me. **

Epilogue

The air was flavoured with the taste of autumn, the coming of winter was hinted at in the frost that had been on the grass that morning. The maples, birches, and oaks were bold with scarlet, yellow, orange and brown. Mixed in were the greens and blue greens of the conifers. The sun had been up for an hour and the light was clear and golden. The sky was that perfect shade of blue that comes from the changing of the seasons. It was going to be a truly beautiful day. Autumn had always been her favourite time of year and it was glorious to spend it in cottage country surrounded by nature rather than in an overheated and congested city.

The Muskokas are approximately 2 hours north of Toronto. It's proximity to Toronto, Canada's largest city, causes the year round population to treble in the summer months. People owned property there or rented cottages in order to escape the confines of city living. It was simply more crowded in June, July and August. There was still ways around not seeing people if you didn't want to. And she didn't want to.

Mary had returned from London two weeks after John and Sherlock had left to do battle against the remains of Moriarty's slowly tattering web. She spent the beginning of May sorting through personal and business affairs. She had effectively closed down her private work before going to England. When she returned she notified former and future clients that she was no longer in that line of work. She really didn't know what she was going to do, but she had enough excitement for now, at least until she worked through her personal demons. She contacted her client who owed her a favour and was able to have the use of her private cottage for as long as she wished. The client never used it. She considered it a business investment. When Mary finally saw the small but beautiful cottage on the small but beautiful lake, she wondered what was wrong with the woman. It was an ideal location to lose oneself for an extended period. But maybe her client didn't have personal demons.

Looking at the tranquility of the lake in the early morning light, she was able to appreciate that she should be feeling more at peace. But it was getting more difficult the longer she stayed and the longer she waited. It was true that some tranquility came during the day, but at night when she woke screaming from dreams of Moran and wondering why she hadn't killed the bastard when she had the chance, anything she had achieved during the day seeped out to be replaced by fear and doubt. She and Sherlock were the only ones who knew the real reason why she hadn't killed him.

It had come from a conversation they had had, ironically, before Moran's capture and torture of her. Sherlock had deduced that she was gradually destroying herself with each and every kill, especially after discovering the whole twisted plot of Moran's. She wasn't sure that the last few assassinations she had done under the orders of what she had thought were legitimacy were what they were suppose to be. She may have unwittingly killed innocents under the guise of supposedly preserving the world. She didn't know. She didn't think she ever wanted to know. She had not killed anyone after that for five years. Not until the night in the alley when she had killed three men to save John Watson. They didn't bother her so much. She figured that in the tally she kept in her head of right and wrong, killing them was right. No, she didn't lose sleep over them. She lost sleep wondering if it would have been better to kill Moran even if it had destroyed her. Then at least others would be safe. She didn't dream about Moran hunting her. He came in the night hunting those she cared about. It was John's lifeless body that woke her in the night. That and the fact that John was out in the world and she had almost no confirmation that he was still alive.

Before she left Toronto, she had, with some trepidation, informed Mycroft of her location, with the stipulation that he was taking his life in his hands should he or one of his underlings visit her. She had done so in the hopes that if he had any information regarding the whereabouts of John and Sherlock, he'd send it to her. She hadn't had much hope that he'd tell her anything, knowing that secrecy of their work was essential. Interestingly enough she hadn't received anything from Mycroft. She had received unsigned and unwritten postcards from various locations around the world, one about every two or three weeks. She had a total of five in all. She knew it was John's way of letting her know he was still alive. The fact that there were so few let her know that they were moving constantly and he barely had time to send them. She had no doubt they had been to many other places other than the five held on her fridge with various kitschy magnets she'd picked up at the local tourist shop. It had been over six weeks since the last one and as September came to an end and October was beginning in a week, she didn't think she was going to receive anymore.

This morning she had managed to drag herself out of bed after another horrible night. She had dressed and made a mug of tea and went to sit at the end of the small dock that came with the property. She slipped off her shoes and rolled up her jeans and put her feet in the water. The water was frigid and much colder than she would have swum in, but having been raised by the ocean when the weather's nice you at least put your feet in. She leaned back on her arms and tilted her face to the sun, the early rays warming her skin. She ignored her cooling mug, lost deep in thought.

It was then that she heard footsteps approaching on the gravel path leading down to the dock. She momentarily wondered who would be visiting her, when she really took in the sound of the tread and the pace. They sounded weary. Her heart, which had been curled tightly into her chest, skipped a beat, but she didn't want to get her hopes up. She did not open her eyes until she heard the sound of a canvas bag hitting the other end of the deck. She didn't stand until she heard the footsteps continue on the wooden boards and she didn't turn around until she heard him say,

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

He stood there with the sun playing on his hair, which had more grey in it than before. There were more lines on his face and he had lost weight. His beard had grown in and the overall effect made him look older and far more serious. _The beard_, she thought, _was definitely going to go_.

She walked up to him and looked into his eyes. Although the warmth and kindness that were at the root of John Watson's soul were still present, there were definitely more shadows in them. _That's all right I can live with shadows. I have mine own you see._ Neither said anything for a whole minute, they just stood looking at each other.

"You're hair's longer," he said brushing it out of her eyes.

"I was thinking the same of yours," she said with a soft smile, reaching up to mirror his movements.

They paused.

'Where's Sherlock?" she asked.

"He stayed up at the house. I don't think he wanted to be anywhere near here in case it got …"

"Emotional?" this time her grin was wicked, as she eased back into being herself.

"Yes, I think that would be accurate," he said grinning back. Then he turned serious again. "I missed you. I didn't know that I would. But I missed you every day."

"Me, too," she said.

She wrapped her arms around him and he did the same leaning his head against her. He stroked her back.

Then she asked the question she had been wondering about since seeing him standing there.

"Is it over?"

He breathed into her hair.

And he answered her truthfully.

"For now."

They stood there like that for a while and then walked back up to the cottage, where Sherlock was waiting.


End file.
